


Misc 005: Toes Across the Floor

by Rhion



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Ending, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Resolved Romantic Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, resolved emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: Irene was there as a favour, just checking on the house, checking on Eugene, as per Jerome - no, Vincent's - request. She hadn't wanted to be there, she never did. She wanted to run away from everything, at least for awhile. But she went, because Vincent asked her to, and she looked, and she investigated, and she stopped the worst from happening. Neither of them wanted to be there, both of them wanted to leave, in different ways. Instead, they stayed, they waited, and they nursed the fragile bond Vincent had planted the initial seed for, until they had their own. And they find that the waiting isn't so bad when shared.





	1. Chapter 1

Irene had told Jerome - _Vincent_ \- that it was just a brief orbit around the sun. She wanted, needed him to believe that, because she didn’t believe it herself. This was his dream far beyond hers, she hadn’t realized just how driven, how much he had needed that, what the lengths he had gone to, to attain that dream were. Irene dreamed of the stars herself, had striven, had done all she could, but still fell flat. Perhaps it was because her dreams of the stars, while deep and needy, weren’t the kind of dreams that sustained her from cradle, through...everything. Almost perfect Irene, a valid whose perfectly selected genes that had been chosen so as to grant her the best capabilities, the least amount of dangerous, risky disorders - she had wanted the stars, the space, for many reasons. Not the least of those reasons was to shed Earth for a time, to see something few ever got to, to surpass the limitations that had cropped up in spite of the low likelihood of presentation. Jerome-Vincent, no, he was Jerome in her mind far more than Vincent, though Vincent shined through when she saw who - no, what those lengths were he had gone to, and _who_ the ladder he climbed actually was. The birth Jerome only had the genes to potentially achieve what Jerome-Vincent managed, so was really nothing more than a reflection, a placeholder, wearing that name until an (in)valid Vincent came to take what rightfully belonged to him by birth or not. Jerome-Vincent was the true Jerome Morrow, while the broken perfection in a wheelchair, was simply Eugene Morrow. 

She sat outside the beachfront house Jerome, Eugene, the pair, had coexisted in for the years Jerome-Vincent had been a navigator at Gattaca. The steering wheel of her car was gripped tightly, she was here because Jerome had asked her to be here. A plea to a friend, to a loved one - what a peculiar thought that was, for all her genetic superiority (minor imperfection aside) and acceptance amongst her ‘peers’, not once had she felt equal, accepted, known, seen, wanted, or loved by them. They were taught to be superior, to settle for nothing less, so much so, that they forgot human connection, everything caught up in the idea of a perfection thats substance wasn’t based in the person, their day to day interactions and actions, but solely their engineered genes and how many medals, accolades, achievements they had under their belt. 

Really, she wanted to run. Wanted to run, and run, and run, and run until her heart screamed at her no more, not another step, and push beyond that. To throw away her nitro pills that she took when she had forced her heart to a pace it couldn’t sustain. 

But the plea of someone, person to person, human to human, friend to friend, equal to equal, the request of a man who couldn’t even consider for one moment that she was truly self-serving, instead seeing her, treating her, as though she were a good person rather than a good gene profile with a matching skillset - that was what kept Irene from running. 

Chewing her lip, forcing herself to release the steering wheel, to open the car door, to take one step after another, her sensible heels clicking on the pavement, Irene strove for a different sort of perfection. At least in that moment, being the perfection that Jerome had seen, some nebulous creature that thought outside of its own self-interests or preferences. For those moments as she went to the front door, inserted the key Jerome had given her alongside that request, she was not the disqualified Gattica navigator always jockeying for position, with expectations of success and achievements to live up to. She instead was a person who thought of others without expectation of reward, or thanks. 

Closing the door behind herself, she called out cautiously from the main floor, “Eugene?”

No answer. 

Irene had fulfilled Jerome’s request, at least the part about going to check on the house. That was the request, to the letter. A technical fulfillment.

...It was one that ignored the meaning behind that request, the meaning that had to be veiled from the world, where such a revelation could do the most harm to others beyond Jerome.

Therefore, the only conclusion Irene could come to, was that her simply coming in, calling out Eugene’s name, was an unacceptable level of action. Braving the stairs - _God, how did he manage to get up here in time? To conquer these steps quickly enough to reach that button to let us in, to haul himself to that chair, and look so unconcerned?_ \- that were easy for her to descend physically, not so much mentally. Irene didn’t know what she would find down there, who she would find, didn’t want to know, not really. She wanted Jerome, she wanted the stars, she wanted to run - Irene did not want to explore this territory, to see what odds were overcome, to see another valid’s failure to live up to their potential...it would be too much like being forced to openly accept her own weaknesses that she hadn’t been able to conquer the way Eugene had those stairs that were now behind her.

“Eugene?” calling out again, this time her voice quavered, and Irene staunchly squashed that sign of weakness. Valids didn’t show weakness to others, and in particular, not to other valids. “Eugene Morrow, it’s Irene.”

No answer. 

Lips rolling, pursing tightly, she spun a very slow circle, taking in the screened off sections, the desolate kitchen that, while spotless, looked as though it hadn’t been used properly in ages. A few shelves were stacked with books, many kinds of them, classics to a few worn out pulp fiction hardbacks jammed in between the heavier readings on physics, history, culture, economics... Peering behind one of the screens, that was obviously Eugene’s private sleeping space, it too was meticulously ordered, crisp, medical. Uninviting. Frown deepening, Irene went to the next room, seeking some evidence of Eugene. There wasn’t much of anywhere for him to go, at least not during the daytime, it was too likely he would be recognized and put Jerome at risk. Not that out in space there was much risk, but when Jerome returned there could be. 

She saw the wheelchair beside a large metal box. It took a moment of confused scanning of the small, otherwise empty room, to take another look at the glass door on that box...to register what she saw. Or, more precisely, who. 

Distantly she heard clicking from tanks elsewhere in the house, could swear she heard gas and air flowing through tubes, towards that box, reacting to some sort of preset timer. For once she was the fastest. For once, she was unparalleled, a moment of the purest excellence condensed in those vital seconds. It felt like a hellish forever, but that was from within the confines of Irene’s horrified, screaming, pleading mind, as her hand wrapped around the rotating locking door handle, the other smacking against the emergency shutoff button near it. She didn’t know which part happened first, or which action was successful, beyond somehow forcing the jammed door open. Its hinges screamed their protest, but Irene only had one thought: Get Eugene out of that box.

Beyond the disjointed image and sensation of shoving her arms around his shoulders, grasping clothes, anything, and falling backward, launching backward, kicking backward, away from the base of the incinerator, like a swimmer flipping and rebounding in the water to use the leverage of pool wall to thrust them into another lap, lending them a boost against the temporary slowing the repositioning required... If Irene knew Eugene’s history, she would find that analogy painfully ironic, downright tasteless even. But she only registered his weight in her arms, the chic painted cement flooring striking her rump, then her back, as Eugene’s weight filled her arms, pressing her down, while she instinctively continued trying to drag him away from a danger that had been nullified. The incinerator’s failsafes engaged, though not before several ugly jets of flame spurt out from the open door. 

Gasping for breath, crying, overwhelmed, the adrenaline still roaring through her, Irene clutched Eugene to her breast protectively, while he angrily howled and tried to wrest himself free. 

“Unhand me you - “ it was broken, barely made sense, garbled. “No, no, no!”

Irene didn’t dodge the fist that landed against her cheek, only kept scooting with the power of scrambling legs on slick floor, anything to put another inch between them both and that death box, no matter that it had shut itself off. “Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”

What stuck out after she somehow scrambled and dragged both of them through the door, shoving it closed with a stockinged foot, her tan pump lost somewhere, was how they both huddled in on one another, arms no longer pushing away or flailing or trying to get a better grip to prevent losing hold on him, breaking down, both of them. Their arms wrapped around one another, their legs splayed and canted at uncomfortable angles, like broken dolls, in that moment, equally paralyzed from the waist down, their lower limbs useless. 

Drained, hours, days, an eternity it felt like afterwards, the neck her face was pressed into, the shoulder of the sport coat he was wearing - they were sodden, soaked through with tears, saliva, and snot, freely shed, the overwhelming terror, anger, confusion, having flowed away as the fluids left her. Her hair was mussed, her blouse and jacket was equally sodden, there were bruises forming over her back, she could feel it, a dull, warm ache from his clutching fingers digging into her. She had no energy left, and neither did Eugene, their breathing having synchronized during the release of explosive emotion or stress, whatever it should be called. Exhausted by the ordeal, of all that outpouring, Irene hung on, leaned in, and tried to inhale through a nose that was as blocked as though she had broken it.

Eugene wasn’t any better off, the occasional disconsolate moan interrupted by an ugly snuffle, and smear of wet cheek against her throat.

“You’ve ruined it, absolutely ruined it!” the words some of the only clear things that Eugene had managed to utter, and for all their upset, they were so devoid of strength, of force. “Cocked it all up! Why? Why? It’s not my fault, can’t be my fault, not this time, can’t always lose...”

Summoning up some bit of strength she didn’t know she possessed, Irene leaned her head back, forced locked fingers from where they had been bunched up and frozen in Eugene’s jacket - and slapped him on the back of his head. It was weak. One slap there led to another, those were weak too, she had enough strength and energy to move that little bit, but none to lend weight, force, to the blows. One hand became two, and it was stupid, so, so stupid, the sort of action a child would indulge in during a tantrum. 

But it led to grasping his head, grasping his face when she couldn’t lift her arms again, and yanked his head close enough to hers, they almost slammed foreheads when all she was trying to do was stare him down, maybe rest her forehead against his, they were both too tired to remain even a little upright without the other’s support, “You selfish bastard. You overweening prick. You fucking cockstain.” The insults came without heat, and he hadn’t reacted, but the last one, the one she hadn’t ever thought of as an effective insult, one that belonged in silly books and movies about heroes and honour, “Coward,” that one had him trying to flinch away, sky blue, blood shot eyes filling up with fresh tears though they looked too thirsty to manage the bits of water that slipped free at that single word. “Coward. You’re a coward, Eugene.”

“No,” denying it. “No! I was sober when I walked in front of that car, I was sober when I climbed into that incinerator! I was going to do it! I wanted to, I want to, I _need_ to, I _don’t belong here_. I don’t _want to be here anymore_ can’t you understand that?!” Hands slid to her shoulders, trying to push away, but instead, only locked there, “It was planned out, I promised myself I’d be free of this cursed...cursed hunk of useless flesh once Vincent got all that could be used out of it. So it’d be useful to someone, since it’s not to me...and I’m tired. I’m tired...” trailing off, eyes closing, weariness pouring off of him, the repeated statement ending in an awful sob.

“That’s all you’re good for?” challenging him, and in a way, challenging herself. “A body? There’s not a mind in this skull of yours?” shaking his head with her hands, rattling his brain hopefully. “You’re just a stupid chunk of meat, bought and sold at market, cut up into pieces for another’s consumption? A body, some DNA, a paper cutout of flesh and bone that only exists to measure up to the demands of others?”

Living up to the expectations of society, of work, of her peers, of her family that had paid through the nose in hopes of producing a child so genetically superior while all but obliterating the risk of that pesky family predisposition - it was overwhelming. Dehumanizing. But of course it was dehumanizing when you were told from conception onwards that you had to be superhuman...it robbed you of humanity. It made it impossible to truly maintain a solo identity, hopes, dreams, preferences...even as it bred entitlement, expectation, and an inability to deal with failures, setbacks, the little things that happened to people, or the deeper things, that made people, well, people.

For so long, so, so long Irene thought she was the only one. The only one certain she was an imposter. Hell, according to some of her former romantic interests, and even her friends, when they found out she had lost the gamble her parents made, and had a heart that wasn’t as reliable as it had been designed to be - they had told her she was an imposter. That she was little better than an (in)valid. So she had hidden it, hidden it and fought it, and was grateful every day that it was not a visible mark against her that the casual, or even more than casual, observer would notice.

Not fighting her, eyes scrunched shut, “Cows have best friends. Wouldn’t say it changes things for them when it comes time for somebody’s supper, now does it? In the end, steak’s on somebody’s plate.” Sighing, hoarse, “Look at me, there isn’t anything left, not for me, not for others, not for the world...fuck them anyway, who cares, but they don’t have a use for someone like me beyond what they can squeeze out of my flesh and bone, then throw what’s left into the glue factory.”

Irene made a face at the imagery. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Figures,” gasping out a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Still eat dairy? Eggs? Cake? What happens to those cows that don’t make milk anymore, hens that don’t lay? When they’re no longer able to produce, it’s just a quick trip to the meat market or stewpot or dog food factory.”

Strange things for a valid, crippled or not, to be aware of. Irene knew, probably knew a lot better than Eugene did - she actually spent her summers from shortly after birth, on up until the end of university, on her grandparents’ goat and sheep farm. She didn’t mind the meat from that farm, either, it was finding out how industrial farming dealt with meat harvesting, that turned her almost full time vegetarian. Not that she could afford too stringent dietary restrictions and have a hope of Gattaca sending her to space, so she allowed for dairy, eggs, fish. 

“You’re not a herd animal,” Irene insisted, tired, shaking him again, wondering if a single word she said had gotten through to him. Probably not. He would have to be strong willed - _Stubborn, difficult, bullheaded_ \- to have carried out his half of the charade that allowed Jerome to achieve what should have been impossible. “You’re a man. A stupid, stupid, idiotic man.” 

“See? Told you, I’m a fake, you should tell all those morons who administered my IQ tests that they got it all wrong over the years, probably help screen out other useless gits like myself,” it lacked the measured cynicism and wit that seemed native to Eugene under normal circumstances, but it was closer than all that blubbering they had both been doing. They both flopped to the side, or perhaps Eugene dragged her, his spine no longer able to hold himself up even while leaning against her, or maybe she fell over first, it was a tossup. “What on earth are you doing here anyway, darling? If you’re looking for something that smells like Vincent, you know where his bed is, quite certain you’ve been there before, and it’s not down here. Best fetch whatever you like before the cleaners come to pickup the weekly laundry, it’ll be their last visit until he returns, and I won’t risk any of his (in)valid DNA laying about to incriminate him...so chop-chop, go on up there, get it while the getting’s good as the saying goes.”

Had she thought the cynicism was gone? No, it was just dampened temporarily. Half dead with strain and given a few minutes to collect himself, and that acerbic ass managed to put that ugly barrier that he called a sense of humour, back on display. “Bastard.”

“Sir Morrow, and madam Morrow, do not sully themselves with unintended pregnancies,” muttered primly. “One, and only one, utterly perfect, 9.3 on the scale, son and heir, to do them proud and live up to their exacting standards...produced exactly five years after the wedding they undertook to stave off the stain of being only three generations of well monied on one side, and true nouveau riche on the other, knighted or not. No bastard here, darling, just perfectly bred disappointment to be hidden away in some country my oafish self had originally immigrated to for uni, so that the others don’t have such an easy time staring at the disgrace they created. The gossip without the evidence of my presence is surely nasty enough, entertaining however... I almost miss it, ah, good memories. Perhaps I won’t regale you with them sometime.”

“Fine,” letting that go for now. Irene hadn’t the energy. Instead, she struck where she had a feeling it would hurt in a very different way that calling him a coward did. “He,” no need to specify, especially since, in her mind, Jerome was Jerome, while in Eugene’s Jerome was Vincent...or perhaps it was only here, in this private space where that identification was allowed? “Asked me to come here, to,” stretching the truth, she did her best, “to make sure you were alright, not lonely, or-or without a friend on hand. I think he asked me to do that as a way to keep me from running away...”

“Oh, darling, darling, you are a _deplorable_ liar,” he sighed. “Even if it does sound like something he would do. Keep the hangers on occupied, make sure we clean up after ourselves, take our vitamins, get enough sleep...be good little boys and girls while he’s too far away to mind us himself.” A sound of exasperation, “I don’t even know how you made it through life without becoming a better liar, my dear. As is, you all but handed Vincent over to that meddling prick, Anton with your pisspoor performance. I did _not_ haul myself up a full flight of stairs on my belly like some sort of worm for you to throw it all away.” Growling, and as Irene watched him complain, she realized this was his way of trying to hang on to something, even if that meant she was subjected to his criticism, she would tolerate it for now. But just for now, if he kept it up beyond this crisis, she would sock him a good one, cripple or no, he still had the upper body strength to strike back or defend against a fist, no matter how well aimed. “Honestly, how could you do that when you had been so willing to risk yourself and cover for him before? Balking at a bit of charade, not even ten minutes of it! Not like you had to do the hard work... And you _bit_ me!”

Irene released a sigh when Eugene petered out, she wanted to fall asleep, no matter how awful the floor was it was right there, and tempting, but she wouldn’t allow it. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to wake up sore, but it was really because she was still afraid Eugene would somehow manage to cram himself back into that incinerator, or at the least, injure his body worse than it already was. Paraplegics had to be careful, they may not feel much, or any pain in the limbs that had lost their direct connection to the spinal cord, but that didn’t mean that those injuries were something that could be ignored. There was infection to consider. Or torn muscles or tendons in atrophied limbs. It could all lead to dangerous complications down the road, so should be avoided.

“Eugene,” prompting him, hoping the closed eyes didn’t mean he had succumbed to the siren call of sleep, and straightened and untangled her legs from the mess she had made of herself while still laying down, “Eugene, I’ve had enough of your stupid floor. We’re going to bed.”

A blue eye popped open, brows furrowed, “I beg your pardon?”

“We are going to bed,” enunciating. “ _Not_ on the floor. A bed. The nearest bed. A couch. A sofa, I don’t care what soft surface it is, Eugene, but it won’t be the floor. It’s not soft, and I’ve had enough of this.”

“I didn’t ask you to throw us both on the floor,” he protested. “That’s all on you, I’ve nothing to do with it. Here is where you dropped me, and that will have to do, until I’ve had a nice lie down, regathered my strength, and crawled to my wheelchair you ever so thoughtfully left in the other room behind that closed door. Oh, it’ll be a game, I wonder how many tries it’ll take of me lunging upwards to get the door handle and work it, so that I can actually slither my way back in there where my only means of mobility is sitting, all lovely and nice.”

That made her angry. He had _everything_ to do with it. Never, not ever, not even running with Jerome from the police that night, had she ever been so afraid. She didn’t like Eugene, he was a jackass, but nobody should kill themselves like that. It was too awful to consider. And impossible to hang back and watch without acting, just from a purely human standpoint. 

That anger gave her enough gumption to lurch and shove herself against the floor to sit up, “If you hadn’t done something so callous and selfish as pack yourself into the incinerator, I wouldn’t have had to yank you out of it, and neither of us would be on the floor.” Wiping at the muck he had left on her clothes, face crinkling at how gross, wet, slimy and cold it felt on her fingers, “Or covered in each other’s genetic materials. I thought you would be drunk and despondent, or drunk with a few escorts, celebrating, I wasn’t prepared for the,” traumatic, scarring, horrifying, terrifying, soul crushing, “image of a human being relaxing, waiting to be consumed by flames like it was an afternoon at the park! If you hadn’t done that, Eugene, if you hadn’t decided to be a coward who doesn’t care who he hurts, who he scars, who he leaves behind, you would have your rump firmly planted still in your wheelchair.”

Amidst her methodical tirade, Irene had rolled to her knees, kicked off her other heel, yanked off her coat, and begun to work her hands under Eugene’s armpits, planning on dragging him with whatever strength she could find, towards his sleeping area. 

Breathing heavily, Irene had never felt so upset and emotional as she had the last few weeks. And today? Today took the cake, by far. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the overwhelming force of it all. So she was breathing heavily, not from physical exertion, but everything, everything all at once. 

Catching her breath, no matter that the little bit of activity the last few moments shouldn’t have her winded, Eugene’s voice was very soft, very clear, “I’m sorry, Irene. Nobody was supposed to see that, least of all you or Vincent. All that was supposed to remain was my wheelchair, and the legacy of someone more fitting wearing my identity. Nothing horrifying or awful to hurt anyone left behind. No corpse, no rot...just an empty seat that I used to fill and a name I could never live up to. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I only...I only want my hurting to stop.”

“Not fair,” Irene protested, disarmed.

“Life’s not fair, life’s not just, or Vincent would have been a valid, or his genes never would have mattered, only his dedication and skill, my being second place would be good enough for my family, for me, and a thousand other things, dearest, like you being up in the night sky he was always on about right there beside him,” and with the words came him trying to add at least some locomotion with his upper body to match her jerky, tired pulls that aimed for his sleeping area. “We do our best, and sometimes that’s just not good enough. And I can’t take that Irene, do understand? My best doesn’t do anything, it only hurts others, it only drags them -”

“Oh do shut up, Eugene,” biting her lip, not wanting to start crying again, because his voice was so soft, so earnest, so sweet, he believed, and she could all too easily understand those feelings. “Just, keep helping me a bit here, or - “ she grunted, reassessed, then repositioned so she was over him partially, “can you lock your arms around my back? I may be able to move us along without straining anything this way...”

A tiny, quirked smile, and the weight of arms, the strength of them locking, the knot of his hands wrapping tightly over each of his wrists, “It’s hardly ten a.m. darling, we haven’t even been drinking, and we’re all done in, ready for a nap. Scandalous.”

With their combined, drained efforts, they both hauled themselves onto the rather roomy, upraised bed Eugene called his own. Irene knew it was just shock, adrenaline wearing off, stress, a sleepless night before, all adding up, culminating in this weakness, this fatigue, this emotionally unhinged state... But god, she was so fucking tired. And she was still scared Eugene may do something while she was asleep, something deplorable, and hurt himself in some attempt to make his own inner agonies and demons be silent. Scooting around, a bit of fussing at their clothes, both of them assisting the other to at least get tucked in, extra layers of unwanted garments squirmed free of and tossed aside, whether they made it to the floor or would wind up tangled in the bedding, was a concern for later. Wrapping her arms around Eugene, she ignored his startled grunt, and pulled him in tightly, so his head lay over her heart, her chin tucked over his crown, and her arms very thoroughly tangled around him. He wouldn’t be getting free of that hold without waking her up, that was a fact, and, for good measure, she wrapped her legs around one of his limp ones, a last bit of insurance to keep him safe until she woke up rested enough to fight him again later.

XXX

Breasts. Breasts and powdery night jasmine and sandalwood perfume, or scent added to delicate feminine items during their wash. Breasts, scent, once familiar things. Breasts, scent, and arms, arms and breath in his hair, and a heart beating under his ear, tight, soft curves pressed up close, with him half draped over them, a hand clutching and squeezing the round of a hip. Eugene didn’t indulge in these things, he only acted like he did. Jerome used to, even after the accident, even after half his body’s use was taken away as punishment for failing to succeed yet again - and at something so simple like dying! Jerome before and after, oh, he was well familiar with such soft lines and smells and textures, it was just that the Jerome after his ‘accident’ had had to pay women for that, and they certainly didn’t stick around for him to nap on them. 

Or perhaps it was all a nightmare. An ugly, ugly nightmare. To test the theory, he tried to move his leg. Failed that. Alright, something easier, how about identifying just _where_ under the pile of blankets, unseen, his leg was, and he sent firm orders to those recalcitrant limbs to obey, to wiggle enough to make the sheets whisper with the shifting of it. Again, failure. Not that he truly expected to succeed, it had been five, no, no it was _six_ years - bloody hell, how could it really be six years already? - since he lost his value to society as himself. It had been _three_ years since he gained a shot at doing something worthwhile with a life he had been too afraid to try to end again by that time. The question of ‘what if he failed again’ and ‘what would be taken away while still left breathing, aware, sentient, suffering’ was what had held him back until Vincent came along. It took awhile after that dreamer infected him with some sense of purpose, some kind of dream, that said as himself, he would only be a failure, but if someone else was him instead...that could be a success. Could achieve the impossible. So then, six years, and he’d found the courage to clear the slate, make sure that the man who filled out his name, his identity, giving it a worth, a weight, that he never, ever could have managed himself, would never, ever be at risk for being labeled a fraud. No duplicate Jerome Eugene Morrow seen out around town, or having a pizza or bottle of wine delivered to him. No more burden of picking up the cripple who had fallen off the couch because he was too drunk to aim for his wheelchair. No more financial drain from a lazy, no good, valid who couldn’t even cook egg toast without a recipe and very attentive watching every step of the way. 

So...then that meant one thing, this soft and taught pile of woman holding him close, clutching to him like a lifeline - he had failed _yet again._

Really, it was pathetic. How could he actually manage to be even more pathetic than he already was? Eugene had thought he had already hit the bottom, but life sure did love to show him how easy it was for him to fuck it up, no matter how well, how carefully he planned. 

Making a face, he began to try and extricate himself from the S&M worthy level of bondage with ropes made of lean, long arms, and a ballerina’s body he found himself in.

“Mph,” a worried grunt, and the arms tightened in response to his movement. 

Slower, wincing, he tried again, but this garnered a more startled, upset noise, and then he found himself rolled over willy nilly without so much as a by your leave, onto his back...and a surprisingly heavy woman pressing him into his mattress. All while the stranglehold and tangling of her limbs around him remained in place. 

“Oh this is _ridiculous_ ,” moaning to the heavens, to the blonde mess that obscured part of his view of the floor above. “Ludicrous. Preposterous. Fantastic. Outlandish. Nonsensical - 

“Did you swallow a dictionary?” came muffled grumping from the vicinity of his shoulder. 

“My IQ’s off the charts, though after you have a stern word with them to correct their calculations and tighten up their loopholes, I’m certain it could be downgraded to merely above average,” dryly, Eugene quipped, hands fussing with the blanket python that had formed during their nap, and this subsequent rolling about, if only to keep from the temptation of stroking the line of Irene’s back.

He didn’t need to think about that, or to wonder how Vincent’s hands had mapped her body, how he had made her gasp. He’d gotten a good earful the other night. He was proud on one hand of Vincent’s showing, on the other, it had left Eugene feeling despondent. Maybe it was because Vincent was enjoying himself and Eugene was on his own, debating covering his head with a pillow to block the noise, or to frustrate himself by trying to rub one out with a body that had become balky at the most inopportune times. Hell, he could even have been feeling awful about Vincent having a good time because it was someone else Vincent was with, or, or, or, or a few dozen other reasons. It didn’t matter.

His hands were busy, properly busy, with the wadded up bedding, no danger, nor annoyance to anyone.

“Jerome’s much quieter than you are,” she moaned her complaint, slowly pushing up from the bed, to balance her weight on her elbows above him, far too close, far, far too close. “Are you always so fucking chatty?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be an annoyance to a person who came in unannounced, really, not even a call, I know we valids tend to think everyone wants to see us and is just waiting upon baited breath, eager to interact and show off our superior engineering, but manners are still useful when making house calls,” rolling his eyes at her. “As such, perhaps it’s not rude of me to point out the fact that you arrived, unannounced, unrequested, unwanted, invaded a private moment, making free with my person, my bed, and are now presently trying to amputate my legs with fabric. While granted they are useless, I am still rather attached to the damn things, you know. I like to stare at them late at night and torment myself with their mocking presence or doodle tic-tac-toe with permanent marker on them, but they are mine, and you shouldn’t be just going about and doing them harm for funsies. Really now, if you were curious about how -”

“Eugene, shut up,” groaning, head dropping to his chest. “Really, seriously, or I’ll find a sock to stuff in your mouth.”

Blinking, surprised, he realized something. “You aren’t a morning person, are you?”

“ _No_ ,” she growled. “And even if I was, you still talk too much. I don’t know how Jerome or you figured he could pass for you. Anyone who knew you before he took your place, would know in about two sentences.”

Innocently, “Why? Is it because it takes an hour or more to get those two sentences out of him?”

Silvery blue eyes pinned him from the side, narrowing, “Because when he speaks, he says something. When you do, you say a lot of horseshit and not much else...so that when you say something worth saying, it’s covered up enough that nobody might catch it.” She sat up in a stretching sway, a big yawn accompanying it. “He’s stoic, his heart’s hidden somewhere on his sleeve, and he’ll show it when it’s important. But you...you say I’m a bad liar, Eugene, but you’re only successful at it by fanning smoke, shining mirrors, and hoping no one notices the man behind the curtain...a curtain that fell down, or was never put up.” A taupe manicured nail poked him on the breastbone, “Yours is as out there, loud, obvious, and almost as obnoxious as your monologues.”

Crossing his arms, Eugene, returned the stare, unspeaking. 

“Did you even bother telling him? In _small_ words, Eugene? Or did you just yammer like a jackdaw, hoping he noticed, and hoping he didn’t,” she was looking right through him.

Eugene didn’t like it.

“You may leave now, thank you,” he stated firmly, evenly, and politely. “Duty discharged to ‘check up’ on the house or whatever it was he asked you to do that took up your time in visiting. We should do this again sometime, I was thinking the day after ‘never’. I’ll even make a pot of proper tea.”

He watched as Irene sat back on her haunches, the motion taking much of the blankets and sheets he hadn’t been able to win free of on his own, her expression intense. “You love him, never said a word, and you expect him to come back from Titan to find you gone...find you abandoned him, what will he do? He’s beaten the odds already, has continued to do so again, and again. He’ll come back, an identity he won’t be able to properly use without you to -”

“No,” lips firming into a tight line. “No, I made sure he would have decades worth of my materials. I’m not sloppy. I’m not careless. It’s only other people’s interference that mucks up anything I set out to do. A driver that was too good, a medical team too dedicated... _you_ being the chief examples. No, no I made quite certain that Vincent is well protected, well covered.” And far, far more than simply supplying genetic material. There were insurance policies, there were little things here and there, using his stupid vaunted IQ to learn the ins and outs of economics, at least as much as was required for him to squeeze every single dividend and benefit for an emergency, a worst case, a retirement, a new life, anything, that his friend, his one, and only, true friend, the only person who would miss him, the only person who ever really cared about him as himself, whatever that was. “My gene sequence is almost pure perfection, and I demand nothing less than that from myself. I’ve left no stone unturned, nothing to chance when it comes to his return and ability to continue living out whatever life he chooses, act out whatever dreams he aims for.”

She shook her head, speaking the truth that only was supposed to come from him, or maybe Vincent, though his friend was far, far too kind to say so, “Your demands aren’t always met, Eugene.” Heaved a sigh, looking around the quiet bits of his house that had become almost a home with Vincent’s interference, his presence, filling it, and now, leaving it empty of it, too. “And I’m not just talking about the identity, Eugene. I’m talking about what not having you here would do to him. How many people can he count upon, how many dare he let near, know him? Know him not as a set of altered double helixes, or a position, or a title, but as a person?”

“Anton’s his brother,” Eugene offered, a paltry offer, but it was something. “That’s family. He has you, and any little perfect babies you both opt to create. Word to the wise, much as I admire the idea of being a faith birth, much as I am proud of what Vincent’s capable of without being engineered even the slightest bit...for the safety and happiness of those children, I do suggest that they are planned and engineered... Just don’t treat them like perfect specimens of science and genetics. Treat them like people.”

“Anton, the detective?” ignoring his advice. She was a valid, she knew how the world worked, so did Vincent, but, well, Eugene could add his voice too. “That’s not exactly the sort of person I’d want over for the holidays, Eugene.”

Scoffing, “And a drunken fuck like me, is?”

Irene slid from the bed, shrugging, and Eugene repressed his sigh of relief. Sleep warmed the skin, warmed the thin, stylish yet fairly pragmatic clothes she wore, brought blood to the surface, and sitting like so, so close, there had been the hints of other flesh that had been warmed. She was probably not even aware of it, women rarely were, and if they were, they were worried about it, so didn’t want to know... But Eugene noticed, especially so close up, and it wasn’t even that he wanted Irene sexually, not exactly, it was just an enormous, unwanted mix of crap making for an intoxicating brew that was not as easy to ignore as he wished it was. Still, when she had been right there, too damn close, he could all but taste her in the back of his mouth. 

But, good. Yes, good. She was off the bed, she had walked away, and around the screen. Damn. Blast. Because now he was also without his wheelchair. And she had just...left him behind. _Rude. So terribly, terribly rude. Did her family spend all their money on making her, and forget to instill a bit of class? Or is that an American thing, I can’t remember..._ No, nevermind, the Americans Eugene had mostly dealt with were generally a great deal more polite - or at least standoffish, and thus, could be deemed polite since they didn’t intrude - than many of his countrymen. Then again, that could _also_ be due to the set he was part of, valids of his background were only pretend polite, and only when it suited them...

Distracted from his thoughts, which were also trying to distract him from the fact that he would have to flop onto the floor from a fair height, then begin the lengthy, shameful squirm to his wheelchair...or perhaps the incinerator. No, no, he rather distinctly recalled the sound of tortured metal tearing, amazing really what adrenaline and fear could do, because Irene had displayed superhuman strength in those moments, and the door latch was ruined. And the failsafes that couldn’t be disengaged on the incinerator prevented firing if the door wasn’t locked and latched properly. That he had been fighting to hold onto the inner door handle with both hands while she had managed to open it with one, spoke of just how strong a surge she had been subjected to. It hadn’t been pleasant, the aftermath he was willing to admit was despicable, hearing her great sobbing cries as shock had taken her once the rush of chemicals left her. Eugene felt terrible about that. Felt terrible she had seen him in the incinerator, waiting for cleansing fire to burn away all his failures. Felt pained that her body had reacted as it did, had taken her for such a cruel ride, to leave her with that memory and those feelings burned into her forever. God, he had chosen his method of death so that there wouldn’t be anything to harm anyone...

“Your chariot, sir,” that was the distraction from his distraction, Irene’s voice breaking the looping reverie. Beside the bed was his wheelchair, which she held somewhat awkwardly, inexperienced. Eugene didn’t like anyone touching it, it was too personal. Vincent could, when needed, but anyone else and he tended to feel..violated. Except his friend wasn’t here, and she was, and this was...something or other. “It’s lunch, I’m famished, and I don’t care what protests you use, if I have to pack you into my car, to a diner, then a grocery, without a helpful scrap of action on your part, so help me, I’ll do it.”

Cautiously, “What about work? Shouldn’t you be at Gattica doing something...important?”

“I tendered my resignation last night, the Director should be coming across it now,” she shrugged. “They were never going to put me on a shuttle, my heart is considered...defective. Not completely, but a liability they don’t want, when there are so many others with perfect ones. And without Jerome... I didn’t want to be here anymore. Thought I might go to my grandparent’s farm. They’re dead, of course, have been for years, but a cousin and her family take care of it now.” A wistful sound, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he watched her look off into the distance, while she moved to lean her hips against his bed. “Summers there are beautiful, they always said they wanted to leave it to me, but...my scores, my aspirations, I wouldn’t ever have been able to devote myself to running it properly,” an eloquent shrug. “Besides, not all branches of the family are valids. Not all of them have good choices available to them, any hope of stepping up, or their children having better. So, I asked my grandparents to will it to someone else in the family, someone who would love it as much as they needed it. So...they did.” Shaking her head, “I still visit when I can, lambing season is...” Irene trailed off, again, shaking her head, this time obviously annoyed with herself, “Not terribly interesting, I’m sure.”

That. That was what Vincent saw. The human beneath the valid. The human beneath the (in)valid. Those things that were hiding in plain sight, while hidden. Did Vincent know of a grandparent’s farm and baby lambs? How could he, Irene and Vincent had only recently developed their interaction on any level beyond a nod of greeting, farewell, or acknowledgement that had likely comprised most of the years prior. But that didn’t mean Vincent hadn’t sensed, hadn’t seen the bits of fellow human, in Irene during some small moment that granted him that insight. 

“I’ve read some manuals out of morbid curiosity, a time or two, on industrial farming, or where things came from,” Eugene offered, wheeling to his dresser, digging through it for his grooming supplies, the ones he had removed from the water closet, so that later, Vincent wouldn’t have to. Turning tightly mostly on one wheel, the box in his lap, he offered it up to Irene, “There should be a comb or two in here fit for long hair, dear.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first week, Irene visited Eugene twice a day, unwilling to let the man throw his life away without a fight. He made her mad, he needled her, but there was something incomplete in the attempts to drive her away. Valids had lower instances of mental illness, physical deformities, dangerous tendencies. A lower instance, didn’t mean that they were immune. Irene was clear evidence of that, with her at times uncooperative heart. Money couldn’t actually buy perfection, it only decreased the chances of catastrophic defects that would ruin a child’s future. That was the great lie, or one of the biggest, in the world - money, engineering, planning, insured perfection. And it was obvious to any observer that Eugene’s genetic engineering had wiggle room for depression, mania, things like that, since he was so obviously suffering deeply, madly.

Irene had gone to the library between one of the visits, looking up old behavioural studies and theories, some of them so strange and outre that they couldn’t possibly have ever been considered meritorious. Still, there was information to be had, and a subject to study. Eugene was suffering from mixtures of something quaintly, or accurately, called ‘imposter syndrome’ providing the initial basis and platform for subsequent negative tendencies to build upon. The worst part was, was that the description of imposter syndrome, felt eerily appropriate for herself. For a few friends she’d had over the years, the bare handful that she had truly been close to, the ones that revealed their own vulnerabilities that were labeled weaknesses by society, and thus, nothing a true, proper valid would have. Yet, since valids were humans, genetic engineering increasing beneficial traits, decreasing negative ones, aside - meant that they all had frailties. They all had vulnerabilities. They all had _weaknesses_...ergo, any self-aware valid must, at some point, feel somewhat like a fraud. Like they couldn’t live up to what was demanded, expected, and all that they were valued for. 

The more she read, the more she became sure just how sick society had become. When had the idea of ensuring healthy lives and futures and the best possible chances for long, fruitful existences, turned into something else? Something mandatory. Something that created new class and caste systems, even amongst the supposedly valid-engineered. All Irene had been looking for, was studies on grief and depression. What she found was an avalanche she could barely begin to handle, to understand. As a result, whenever she thought about the enormity of it all, she felt so small, so very small, so very helpless, not knowing if she could do anything, or even if she could, where to begin.

Having quit Gattaca, having lost the one man who hadn’t cared about her defective gene risks, and then the vast weight of Eugene she undertook simply because she felt it was the right thing to do (but it also may have been because saving him, helping him, was like helping herself, or maybe it was to hang onto Jerome, get her through the idea of a year without him when for almost a month he had soaked up nearly her entire world beyond work)... Irene’s studies were her only outlet. An outlet that only left her more lost, overwhelmed, even as she couldn’t set it down, set it aside, long enough for her mind to process, to let it go and let it be, so she could decompress. 

The bottle wasn’t her way of handling things, and yet, there she was, making headway through the first bottle of Eugene’s she had found, while he watched her curiously, head cocked, one brow twisted upwards, the other, tight in over his nose, and a corner of his mouth squished down. How he could make such an expression speak so well without words, was one of the modern marvels of the day, so said the second third of the bottle she was drinking like a thirsty woman coming out of a desert. Hell, she could all but _hear_ him saying ‘how odd, how peculiar, are you quite well, my sweet, did we switch brains, today? If so, give it back, that grey matter you’ve appropriated is mine, and you haven’t paid to play with it, this isn’t a charity!’

Eugene hadn’t said a word though, he just sat there, watching her with that expression, weight braced on one elbow on the arm of his wheelchair. But Irene didn’t have to know the man that well to read the eloquence and snark he wove through every pore on his face. 

“It’s a pretty face,” Irene gasped out, a belch bubbling up without her permission, taking her by surprise, the bottle she’d been sucking on pulled free of her mouth for a long pause. 

“Yes, you are very pretty, Irene, absolutely beautiful, I’d say,” Eugene said agreeably, but there was still _that examination_ thing he was doing, like he was watching a trainwreck, or two bugs in a jar duke it out. “I don’t care what the ideal says, where everything is absolutely mirror imaged one side of the face to the other, that sort of thing lacks any character or depth, a false perfection. But you, love, your face is the sort that poets wrote about, painters captured on canvas, and sculptors battled difficult materials just to immortalize it.”

What? No, no, she knew her face was imperfect. It had made her the butt of many jokes, especially when she was younger, and hadn’t figured out how to use makeup to mask the bit of lopsidedness. Surgery would have been a more permanent solution, but scars, ugh, scars, they were always looking for scars, hoping to catch someone ladder climbing...making it so a valid who just wanted to straighten her nose, or shift a cheekbone a bit so that she could quell the school yard taunts of ‘horse face’ and ‘bug eyed’ and so would have to decide if constantly having to prove her valid status to one and all was worth shutting up those taunting voices she rarely thought about.

“Yours,” she shook her head, correcting him, frowning as he handed her a glass of water. Irene polished it off in a couple gulps, the burn and heat from the liquor having left her mouth parched, even as she salivated, and wanted more alcohol. Had to soothe that burn a bit first. “Your face is pretty, and you shouldn’t be able to do those things with it.”

Fluttering lashes, rapid blinks, he was trying to figure out what she meant, “What things in particular are you taking exception to, darling?”

“Your expressions,” Irene found a seat, the leather whumping and creaking as she flopped onto one of the clean lined chairs. “You talk with them, before you even open your mouth, and then you do open your mouth, and while your face already did so much talkin’, making your thoughts plain, your mouth does even more, making your face seem quiet comparatively...” Irene made a face at the bottle, it really was the sort of thing to be sipped, or mixed, but straight, in quantity, only someone with a cast iron throat would find that enjoyable. And yet she wanted to drink, so there it was - and she took another, deep, long draw, making a mental note to at least stock Eugene’s pantry with some juice or a few cans of cola for the rare time she wanted to drink heavily, but not have an upset stomach. “It’s a pretty face, and you’re carrying on a whole fuckin’ conversation with it, not even having the decency to move your lips to go with it.”

Hand roving through his wavy hair that had gone to seed and gotten a tad longer than it probably was customarily, she should cut it for him, but not when she’d been drinking, otherwise, he may wind up bald. Eugene, afterall, wasn’t a sheep ready for shearing, and that’s what her muscle memory knew better, so she would stay well away from his hair and any cutting devices after imbibing. “That’s a new one for the books, I must say. So, since I’m having this conversation with you, and I’m terribly sorry, I’m not certain what it was that my face said - would you please care to elucidate me? I don’t really feel like going and looking in a mirror to see what inappropriate things it has been saying without my permission.”

Irene leaned back, toeing her shoes off, hoisting a foot over her knee, pencil skirt be damned, and began to rub the soreness there. She wanted to know what the gene was that prevented sore feet from wearing heels, and to sue her parents’ genepracticioner-obstatrician for malpractice for not activating that gene for her. One of her genetic predispositions afforded Irene an extremely good memory, particularly for words, and since she tended to think in words, that meant her thoughts were very well recorded within her mind. Now, mimicking Eugene’s tone, accent, and voice, that would be trickier, but she did her best to parrot it back, “How odd, how peculiar, are you quite well, did we switch brains today, my sweet? If so, give it back, that grey matter you’ve appropriated is mine, and you haven’t paid to play with it, this isn’t a charity!”

The former swimmer scooted his wheelchair closer to her, his head tipping back in the same motion, and he grabbed her foot, to massage it himself. “The accent could use a bit of work. Also, do I really come off so shrill with that escalation in tone in those spots? Tell you what, you work on the accent, I’ll work on the whole accidentally shrill thing.”

Irene blinked muzzily a few times, another pull of whiskey had, watching his hands on her foot, “See? I’m right, your face already carries an unfair proportion of a conversation! Then you open your mouth, and I’m left wondering where I can add a word, or a thought of my own, why even bother, or, or, you already cover anything I could contribute. It’s domineering.” Chewing her lip, she asked a question that had been on her mind, “How did Jerome - how did...how did Vincent handle it?”

He wasn’t looking at her, he wasn’t replying, and Irene figured she wouldn’t get one. So, she worked studiously on emptying the bottle she had nabbed from Eugene’s cupboard upon entering his house today, and allowing him to do whatever ungodly thing it was he was doing to her foot that felt like heaven. _Wonder if he’d do the other foot?_

“He really is Jerome, he’s the Jerome I never could be, but...” still not looking up, fingers still digging in, pulling, pressing, stroking from just above her ankle to her toes, “but I remember when he was simply Vincent. Big, wire frame glasses, teeth that were mostly decent, but a little crooked. Scrawny, gawky, _shorter_ than I was until my failure landed me in this fancy chair... His ears stuck out, still do, he used a bit of putty to hold them back, might still, but why bring something like that to Titan?” It was rhetorical, and Irene patiently waited - alright, she may have moaned once or twice from cracking toes, but who was paying attention? “He offended me, his very presence was a slap in the face. This...this twig thought he could use my name, a few blood packets, and pouches of piss, and the world would believe it? He complained, he back talked, his comments were cutting for how astute and blunt they were, not because he was being hurtful. Oh god, Vincent was, I can’t even begin to describe it.” A thick swallow, and Irene saw a tiny droplet land on her foot, to be quickly smoothed away, Eugene’s head remaining ducked low, and she spared him the embarrassment of trying to soothe or acknowledge whatever it was he was feeling blatantly. “But he only said ‘no’ once to the hell he had to endure to make himself even remotely plausible. I can still hear his cry, it was supposed to be muffled by the bite guard, it was supposed to be eased by the pain injections, but-but the fixer, he cut into Vincent’s legs, both of them, stretched the bones out to far enough apart so that he could drill the leg cages on. An inch or so, that’s something a lift or change in posture can cover...but it was four, five inches. I drank myself stupid every second of that operation, I couldn’t take it, I wanted to cry out along with him, and I couldn’t fathom why.” 

Irene shuddered. This wasn’t anything she knew. This was the man Jerome was before.

“After that, I couldn’t bring myself to question his dedication, I thought he was insane, thought his dreams silly,” he shifted to bend enough to grab at her other leg’s knee, indicating she should give over access to her other foot. “But not once after that could I think for one moment that he wasn’t deadly serious. That he wasn’t, in those moments, in that drive, more valid than any gene sequencing I possessed could make me. I hated him for it, I envied him. Every time he whimpered, or cried out, muffling it or biting his tongue, I always heard it, when he would stand up, or shift his legs, I thought, _good_ , at least you can feel your legs.” Eugene took a deep breath, reaching out for the bottle she held lax, not quite finished with it, but she handed it over, it was his anyway. He took a long pull of his own, and thrust the bottle back at her, “You want to know how he handled my bad attitude? My nastiness? My talking too much? My elitist snobbery and all that rubbish? I’ll tell you how he handled it Irene... He handled it with patience, kindness, grace, and good humour, all of which I didn’t do a damn thing to deserve.” Adding firmly, “Not that he let me walk - haha funny yeah? - or roll all over him either. He gave as good as he got, but he waited until it would have the most impact on me. Not sure if he did that on purpose, or what...but that’s how he handled it. And in turn, I had nary a clue how to handle that. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known, Irene.”

They sat in silence a long time after that, Irene working the bottle to empty, while Eugene focused on her feet. 

When she was more than pleasantly muzzy, she felt the warm lap and hands her legs from about midcalf down had been cradled in, move away, leaving them cold. A blanket was pulled over, strong flicking snap motion causing it to fall over her from neck downwards, and gentle fingers removed the emptied bottle from her hand, along with a glass of water she had drunk at some other point and forgotten she still held.

Broad palm smoothing her hair from her forehead, Irene was completely awake, aware, though yes, very drunk, it’s just that her eyes were tired, and she’d been resting her lids, simply enjoying the shared quiet. She felt the almost sweet kiss pressed to her temple, the delicate way the folds of blanket were tucked around her, and she had to say it before it slipped away, or before she was truly asleep, “You need to tell him, Eugene. Tell him in words, little ones, not the beautiful thoughtful gestures you do, use words.”

“And what shall I say, darling?” sadly. “That I fell in love with him somewhere between being envious and confused? That I looked over one evening over yet another dinner he’d been the one to make, because my lazy ass that stays at home all day, still hasn’t figured out how to produce an edible meal, and watched how he cut his meat, sipped his wine, and thought my god, I miss how beautiful his brown eyes are? Shall I tell him that it is more than just a bit of tissue, my name, and my body he may call his own, but everything? What use is there in this, Irene? I am a maudlin drunk, with nothing else to offer, though I’d gladly share what bits are left with him.”

Irene rolled her head to the side, facing him, “Those are all good places to start, Eugene. But maybe stick to the classics instead of lines from a tragedy comparing him to a summer’s morn. Just tell him welcome home, you missed him, and that you love him.” 

“And will you be there for this momentous occasion, when Eugene Morrow bares his breast so baldly?” the scrape of some stubble was against her cheek, the continuing pass of his hand over her crown, soothing her, making Irene feel cradled, even though she was in the chair, and he was only right beside her, in his wheelchair. “Such returns should be reunions of lovers, not irritating barnacles.”

“Dummy, who said I wouldn’t be there?” Irene kissed his jaw, the nearest bit of it. “Not sure I’d be there if you weren’t, though...”

“Hush now, sweet, don’t think such sad things before you sleep -”

“No, Eugene, I told you, I know I told you - was gonna go run away, run and hide, stay on a farm, and forget about someone impossible, magical, who made me feel human, whole, accepted, and not an imposter, because twelve months,” opening her eyes, “it’s a long time, and not long at all. A long time to live on a memory that covers only a tiny portion of my life. Do you know how frightening that is, Eugene? You...you make it real, you share the time we didn’t have, the time I need to believe even a tiny bit. You had that time with him, I didn’t. Him...he doesn’t forget, I don’t think.”

“Love’s what sustains him,” agreeing. “Love of a dream, of the impossible, of wonder, and hope...a person here or there, are easily fit amongst those nebulous ideas.”

XXX

Eugene packed a decent sized piece of luggage. Of course, the contents were probably rubbish for where he wanted to go. Then again - _Wheels are rather rubbish for there, too, no doubt. Ah well, maybe I’ll take up knitting on the porch?_ \- what did he know of countrysides? Horses, the occasional fox hunt, a barbaric practice that he hadn’t ever truly enjoyed, but the horses, oh he’d liked those. Long walks on the mores. Running cross country for endurance training in some spots. Edwardian monstrosities where other well gened and well monied would idle away a season or two every year. That’s what ‘countryside’ meant to Eugene. It meant wearing wellies but just as often, a pair of loafers, never mind the mud, the (in)valid staff will see to cleaning them up later... 

Altogether, a world apart from the place Irene spoke of fondly, usually when she was tired, when she was falling asleep, or had just woken up, the daily mask not in place any longer. He didn’t allow himself to like that she slept in bed with him with increasing frequency, didn’t allow himself to admire the camisoles and shorts she wore to bed. Where he used to be in nothing but a pair of clean pants, and before Vincent’s entrance into his life, he hadn’t bothered with even that much, he now wore flannel sleep trousers and a battered cotton t-shirt of origins forgotten. At least it was forgotten, until he found some of Vincent’s other old things from the beginning of the transition stuffed somewhere and buried in a trunk. Which, of course explained the tacky t-shirt. Silken or satiny sleep things aside, the worst was when he had pointed out those handful of items belonging to old Vincent, and Irene appropriated one of the tees, and a pair of absolutely, virulently abhorrent pants with smiley faces sticking out their tongues plastered all over them. Because seeing something of his friend’s gracing Irene’s body, brought back impertinent questions, roused thoughts of explorations, mimicking, enjoying, or forging something new...likely all the above. Not possible, as he was the not-true-romantic rival-crippled bestie (or whatever the term women were sometimes overheard using these days). 

Irene shared her time, her friendship, her warmth, the soothing comfort of her relaxed, absent-minded, affectionate touches, because there was no danger of him being anything she considered a sexual entity. (The whole broken back bit tended to assure that. Or maybe she thought he was purely homosexual, rather than ‘anything willing, available, and fun’ historically.) Still, if he did anything, it could very likely destroy this tenuous thing that made him continue to get up in the mornings, that kept him from grabbing a bottle of pills and a couple bottles of booze and making a smoothie. Or playing with those fine knives that Vincent always kept impeccably sharp to better prepare their meals. Or ordering his incinerator fixed. Or sitting in the garage with the car running and the door closed...or, or, or. Eugene couldn’t do that to Irene, couldn’t risk her being the one to find him, dead, dying, or about to take action of that sort. Vincent would understand, he was certain, not that he would want the other man to go through any similar experience either. So, Eugene kept things platonic, even when deadened, though not entirely dead, nerves woke up, and took notice of who was beside him, around him, who was daubing a bit of his aftershave over her legs because she’d pressed the razor to her flesh too hard, the flashes of skin as she dressed or undressed, the way she brushed her hair and braided it or lazily coiled it into a bun whilst holding a few bobby pins between her teeth... Oh god, it was a million tiny things.

It wasn’t so much that either of them were...pinning - oh, well, alright, Eugene was - after Vincent, Jerome-Vincent, or Jerome, depending upon what thoughts were cropping up, or what behaviours were being recalled. No, it wasn’t pinning per se, but they did what they both could to keep a sense that his presence was only recently left and would be back in a week or two. They kept one another in check somehow, weirdly, clinging to their shared scraps of humanity that had nothing to do with genes, perfection, or the world’s expectations. If that meant that sometimes Eugene was asked to share some of what he knew more intimately of Vincent... Well, it wasn’t so bad to actually talk about whatever he was likely already brooding or thinking too hard on. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get some kind of condition at this rate.

Irene came into the house, a bag of groceries tucked in her arms, often coming by the house to drop off basics that honestly, Eugene had forgotten all about. When he was still able bodied, still athletic, he had been a great fan of how easily six eggs could be thrown into a blender with some protein powder crap, chugged, and then consider himself fed for hours, until he figured out what restaurant he was going to grace for a meal. There had been a housekeeper too, one that made meals that all he had to do was heat up in a skillet, maybe the oven, for a bit, plentiful, filling, generally not bad tasting, and in containers he could yank out of the fridge as needed. Dozen egg scramble with heaping handfuls of cheese had also been a not entirely uncommon occurrence, but that had been the limits of his skills, really. Irene was better, much better, though the food was often a bit too...vegetarian. She threw in marinaded meat every now and then out of consideration that he still had tastebuds. (If he didn’t, he would be eating his own cooking entirely, and consider it just fine.)

A bit of bustling around the kitchen, then she saw him, and froze, the note of worry harsh for all its forcefully muted edges, “Eugene?”

Rolling forward, he smiled like he hadn’t a care in the world, and patted the large piece of luggage and his smaller one where they sat on the chaise lounge he’d hired someone to move from upstairs to downstairs a few weeks prior, so that he and Irene could share it time to time while reading whatever held their attention that evening, “I think that I could use some country air. Get out of the city for a bit. You know, get in touch with the wood chopping mountain man I never was.”

Hesitation, wariness, she was very clearly worried, perhaps she feared this was some ploy to get himself to a secluded, unsupervised area, where he could drink hemlock, or maybe even display the fact that he had a gun and eat a bullet. It wasn’t. He would be lying through his teeth to her if she asked him if he hadn’t considered those ideas though, so he felt it best to not imply any of it at all.

The bag of groceries was set down, the paper crinkling, the keys laid on the countertop jangled, and he could see her swallow, no doubt trying to come up with something neutral, nonjudgemental. God he loved her, but wished she wasn’t so afraid to upset him sometimes. He was a very upsettable person and it wasn’t her fault he was a broken husk of a man. “Out of the city, into the countryside...it looks like you’ve a destination in mind?”

“Actually, I was hoping you might know a place, or how to handle those arrangements,” brightly, wheeling closer, wheeling around the kitchen island to her, his khaki slacks and hideous pastel salmon polo shirt felt ridiculous these days, but appropriate for a snob like himself who hadn’t ever experienced the rigors of actual country life. “I’m out of my depth in that regard, but I’d like to bitch and moan while learning about it, most especially if it’s in your lovely company, sweet, as I don’t think I could tolerate very many people on this world other than you scolding me so properly,” goal attained, he reached for her hand, ending the statement with a playful, dashing kiss to her palm. 

Deep breath, cautious still, though he could feel her relaxing, his hands holding hers, were actually there with the intent of taking her pulse, measuring the skittering heartbeat, and he was worried for her. “You mean my grandparent’s farm? Or something else?”

Stroking his fingers over her hand, up her forearm, praying it would soothe, because of late, Irene had clearly been overburdened by something heavy, heavier than himself, frantic inwardly, so that almost any time he touched her, he could feel the fluttering, haphazard, pulse. “Anywhere you suggest, darling. I’m all yours, made certain to clear my schedule just for you,” tossing her a wink, his grin firmly plastered on his face, the kind that nobody ever saw through, the one that hid any fear, any worry, with skill the finest thesp at the Globe would seethe longingly over. “The bills are all up to date for the next few months, nothing important is coming up that I’m aware of, and if I’m not aware of it, then I suppose it’s not important, now is it? Let’s just get away from it all for a bit, darling.”

“Now? Just, go - now?” asking, stumbling over the idea.

“Well, yes, whyever not? What responsibilities, what weighty chains do we have to answer to?” he pointed out. “So long as I am not going somewhere where I must be scanned, poked, prodded and drained every few moments, then there is no risk to Vincent, to you or I. Gattaca accepted your resignation weeks ago. We need not delay beyond you packing whatever you think is appropriate...” Watching as she looked around the room, torn, he pressed the advantage, “Irene, my darling, dearest, Irene - this place feels like a prison to me today. As trapped here as I am trapped with my mortal husk. Let us escape, even for awhile, a day, two, three, a week, anything at all, just _please_ , I don’t think I’ll last much longer with this place for the moment. I _need_ a break, an escape.” 

Taking the blame for why he was so desperate to get them both out of the city, to some place she found peaceful, safe, was an easy enough thing to do. He was quite good at it actually, if he did say so himself. Eugene watched Irene’s gaze flick towards the locked incinerator room, she had done it first, installing a chintzy little padlock that a decent squeeze would have popped, but when he’d observed how she always checked that door, always made sure he wasn’t sprawled somewhere, dead, or ready to be flambe’d... Eugene had called in a discrete locksmith recommended by German to install a more obvious, intimidatingly complex appearing, lock on the door. It was his unvoiced promise to Irene that she wouldn’t be finding him like that ever again. Not that he had precisely given up on dying, but, let’s just say he wasn’t actively seeking it anymore... Right now, he had purpose in this, had purpose in helping Irene, in getting her through the months, and the bouts of self-doubt, always surprised when she was there for his. And most pressing the last week or so, were the dark circles under her eyes, the irregularity of her pulse and blood pressure, the restless, too short sleep even when he would gather her closer to him in an attempt to banish whatever haunted her dreams or woke her up after only a few hours. 

Eugene was himself steeped in misery enough, that he didn’t want to share it with someone, didn’t want to subject them to it, and most certainly didn’t want them to join him in those depths, so he was going to damn well do whatever it took to keep Irene from it. The city, the house, those things all contributed to stress for her, to memories or occasions that had become a bit too much, a bit too easy to dwell on, to drown in. With some relaxation, and some place calming, healing, she would be right as rain in short order, and the pulse that made him worried when watching the grand blood vessels in her delicate throat throbbed in time to it, should ease. 

Hopefully.

Then again, what did he know? He wasn’t a doctor. _Perhaps I should start reading up on that, as well? Taxes, economics, law, what’s a bit of medical literature?_

He knew he had her, one hundred percent, when she rolled her eyes to the side, face following, exasperated, at least a bit, mostly for show, she was just playing, “In that case, alright, I’ll make a few calls. It’s a six hour drive, you know, I wish you’d said something this morning...”

Kissing her hand again, her knuckles, her wrist, squeezing reassuringly, Eugene looked up at her, expression mournful, shameful, like the dirty rotten lying bastard he really was, but it was true, and it was because he loved her, so he lied, “I thought I could handle it, thought it would just sort of go away if I ignored it today, but apparently I can’t, I’m truly sorry, dearest.”

Irene leaned down then, kissing his forehead, then his cheek, and his eyes slammed closed at how casually she could bestow such things on him. Her free hand ran through his hair, cupping his head, keeping it tipped and holding him to her mouth, the sort of tenderness Eugene remembered seeing displayed only very rarely, recipients were mostly toddlers or other small children, by tenderhearted (in)valid nannies who’d grown overly attached to their charges. God, it felt so fucking good, and so bloody terrible at once. She was from a modest family background, bit conservative, while Eugene, well, wasn’t. It wasn’t uncommon in his social set for committed couples to have someone on the side, or several someones on the side, so long as public dallying that could bring embarrassment wasn’t happening, quite a bit was acceptable. Not for Irene’s background, so he may have thoughts, he may have feelings, all of which were really quite dreadfully mundane, and for a thousand little reasons, he gave no indications of his feelings’ depth. She came from wholesome roots, where a man loved a woman, a woman loved a man, and they got married, planned perfect babies, and nobody even looked at another person, because that was cheating, and cheating meant the marriage was ruined and ready to go belly up. Fuck, how scandalized would they be if they knew about his days at Eaton, where he had three boyfriends, two of whom had long term girlfriends, and everyone knew, and everyone was fine with it. That was, of course to say **nothing** of what he got up to at uni, but at least at Eaton it had had some structure, had been sort of kind of relationships. _Oooh, juicy gossip, could shock the locals, couldn’t I?_

_Nevermind any of it, it does me no good, now does it? Stop daydreaming about them both. Vincent might get it, but then again, he’s been all sorts of strange places, now hasn’t he?_ No, no, nothing to upset, or risk Irene and Vincent’s on-hold happily ever after. Maybe they’d invite him to the wedding as a background guest. Hopefully they would have an open bar. 

Irene finally pulled her mouth away from his forehead, though she still cupped the back of his head, her fingers burrowing and massaging his scalp a bit, then again, to be fair, Eugene had her other hand held between his. Voice low, reassuring, “It’s okay, Eugene. I’m glad you told me so I can help, and after I pack a bag while making a call or two, we’ll get you out of here.”

Those calls and that bag didn’t take very long. The bag he could understand, she kept a modestly stocked valaise under his bed, never once unpacking it though he had told her that a drawer was free in his dresser should she care to use it, but the calls he thought would be longer. Shouldn’t calls to family be long? Especially when coming by on short notice for a potentially lengthy visit? At least, that’s what he’d been given to understand by observing other people’s families. Calls to his own family had never been very long, generally brief affairs stating health, general plans, place being called home for the duration of a stay if traveling, or simply a ‘yes, I’m alive, swam three miles in ten minutes’ sort of thing, or got top marks in class... That was it. Conversation was for face to face, and usually it involved witty repartee, sparring that demanded not a single second of inattention, all while appearing utterly, completely, totally unconcerned and in fine humour. And that sort of conversation was only if he had been invited to speak, otherwise, his job was to listen, nod, and occasionally add an amusing anecdote or agreement to go with Mother or Father’s dialogue. Then of course there was his ‘accident’ - _Alright, you know what? That’s it! It was an accident! I accidentally survived, can I have done with this now? ___\- that was supposed to be while heavily intoxicated, which was embarrassing enough for his family, but then to survive and turn out _crippled_ afterwards, yes, well, the calls stopped a year after that accident. The money stopped six months before German brought him Vincent, and that was that. 

Sun setting hours later, still in the car, the music Irene had chosen was something he would have loved to dance to. They were going to stop for the night Irene said, stop soon, there was a little homestead hotel owned out this way, she always stopped there at least for a meal, since they had the best ‘biscuits n’gravy’ according to Irene. Biscuits and gravy, it sounded utterly insane, but then again, he mustn’t forget that Americans had these beautiful, strange, light fluffy scone like things that they called biscuits, and popper biscuits were, of course, cookies. Or tea biscuits. Not a lot of in between. 

Eugene had nodded and said it sounded tasty, moving to drape his arm over her shoulders, not thinking beyond the need for the contact. When he glanced down at some point, he did note with some surprise, that Irene’s hand was resting comfortably, casually, upon his thigh, placed there and remaining there until she would shift gears occasionally, before it landed right back where it had been. If the moment lasted forever, Eugene wouldn’t mind too terribly much, but would only make one request, and that would be the very obvious one. That Vincent was there with them, that they were three people packed into that front seat, elbows, knees, shoulders touching. That would be paradise. Heaven on earth. 

Some point later, Eugene woke, face in smooth, round shoulder, arm around familiar frame, and the car was stopped. He was safe, that’s what that hint of powdery perfume that was layered from Irene’s soap, to her talcum powder, to the detergent she used on her unmentionables told him. Right here was safe, no need to be afraid of the unfamiliar air, the strange open sensation of being in a smallish box outdoors, away from civilization he knew, and that was to say nothing of the noise. Crickets or some other noisy little bug, or frogs? How would Eugene know? They made a racket around the car, yet it was somehow...comforting. Comforting along with the inhales of what wafted and mixed with Irene’s bit of sweat, filling his nose, his head, as he surreptitiously, or so he hoped, kissed the shoulder that she graciously lent him as a pillow. 

“Jerome?” the name, familiar, it was once his, but no longer, and he felt no desire to answer, not even reflexively, not even to Irene. More certain, firmer, not that brief hesitation query to see if he was Jerome Eugene Morrow deep down, or if that was really, truly all gone, “Eugene?”

“Hmmn?” shifting to rest his chin, his mouth more securely where he could fool himself for a stolen moment that this was remotely acceptable. “Yes, my love?” It had been a game once, stupid endearments, pretend affection bestowed left and right to pretty women, beautiful men, old ladies, gentlemen, young bucks, and excited young women. For Vincent, for Irene, the truth was out there, said baldly, it was only layered with a hint of tease, a hint of play, so that they needn’t know that those words had truly become just for them. 

“What if he doesn’t come back?” 

Now that didn’t bear thinking on. Honestly, it had never even occurred to Eugene. He thought about it, considered it long enough to give it fair weight, then said firmly, “He’ll be back. Worse for wear, since going from zero-gravity to earth normal is rough on a body, but he will be back, Irene. I’m certain of it.” He spoke with his mouth remaining right where it had been, making the words muffled around the edges, and each motion, a kiss after a sort. “Why do you ask? Heard something through the grapevine or old contacts, sweet?”

“No,” sensible braid looser than it had been when they set out, the rolled down windows having gotten fingers into it the way the wind liked to do with beautiful, soft hair like hers, and he felt it rather than saw it, as the motion brought it rubbing over his brow, his nose. “I’ve left them all behind for now, maybe later I’ll look for references, build a new resume. Not right now.”

Sitting up while also pushing himself with one arm, the one near the door, so that she didn’t know the effort it cost him if he had used his left to drag himself closer. Besides, it would have brought attention to how that arm was laying more like a lover than a friend’s. Eugene could live off of drips and drabs, his needs were few these years, but he still soaked up what he was allowed, whatever he could gather. 

Closer, cocking his arm so that he could gather a few of the loose strands of honey blonde hair, twirling, rubbing it lightly between thumb and forefinger, “So then why ask, darling? What’s amiss?” Teasing, making sport of himself, in hopes she would smile, in hopes she would unburden herself, even for a moment, “Beyond your usual finding some reason to tolerate me a bit longer.”

“We’re friends aren’t we, Eugene?” the question took him aback just as the other one had, and he wasn’t certain that they had a point, but Irene was asking, and she was making him think, making him consider. 

Releasing one strand, fingers and palm spread, he let it hover over the bit of halo the flyaways had caused, and he told a truth he hadn’t ever intended to, but...but... This wasn’t something he could lie about. “No, I don’t think we are, not at all, Irene. I’m not your friend, darling, I can’t be, I can act like it, do act like it, but it’s only pretend, a charade I play, when it’s like Vincent in that fashion, you know? I’m not his friend, I was never his friend, and I never could be. I will always be the man who loves him, and a man who loves you, sweet. It’s not a fair burden to put upon you, on anyone, so I pretend. A friend is valued, but who could love a thing like me, Irene? I can’t even love myself, have to say that that particular lesson from Mum and Dad I managed to learn perfectly.”

“You love us both, or am I convenient?” the question that he had wished were the answer earlier, shortly after he couldn’t get the simple bits and pieces of her off his mind, was the one she had to ask now.

“Is that so terribly difficult to imagine, Irene?” there was some light from the dashboard, a bit from the nearby hostel or whatever she had called it, shed by an outdoor porch light or two, and there was the ambient light from being away from the city. He didn’t look out the windows, he didn’t move to open up the convertable, to be able to know how brightly the stars and moon shined, because their light was in the car, too. “Eugene Morrow, alcoholic, depressive, former playboy extraordinaire, dallying about with the same verve and dedication as swim training was pursued. A cad, an uncouth waste of flesh that never really knew what to do with anything other than pure success, and was given a weak stomach that couldn’t face being an imperfect second. He was never supposed to know love, Irene, he was only supposed to know pedigree and awards. A trophy for his family. But that’s not true, not really, it’s not all of it, nowhere near.” Chin firming, “I cared, I had friends, I had those who meant more to me, and not because of their status or their genes. And when I lost, I lost not just the gold, my darling, but I lost them too. Broken I may be, dearest, not wanting any hope or dream or reason to want to stay trapped and bound here, but I still am capable of love, much to my everlasting astonishment, I assure you. And it turns out, when you’ve got nothing else, you suddenly have a lot of room to love those who are worth loving.” Looking away from her, out the windshield, “I fought the emotion every step of the way with Vincent. With you, it’s the only thing keeping me from letting go, because I can’t get the look on your face out of my head, and I can’t bear to be responsible for that ever again...so when I noticed it, I let nature take its course, no more engineering for this lad, doesn’t seem to work out well for me.” 

Eugene wasn’t expecting the click of her seatbelt, the click of his own both being undone, while Irene carefully moved herself to straddle his dead legs on the seat, “I told you, a dictionary, you must’ve swallowed it. At least it makes sense at this hour.”

He shouldn’t ask, he daren’t ask, but fool that he was, he did. “And me? Am I convenient? Some...make do thing. Do you still care for him, too?”

A soft laugh, or perhaps more of a huff, though really, somewhere between the two, “There’s nothing convenient about you, Eugene. Not a single thing. Other than a free and happy life, I wouldn’t change a thing about you, though. And yes, for the record, I care for him, too, no matter what Mom would say about it. But you are here,” her fingers were at his collar, curling it, “and I am here, and we both have hearts that seem to be a bit uncommon, fitting more than one special someone in it.” 

He couldn’t hardly believe it, Eugene Morrow wasn’t that blessed, but he would accept what she shared...hopefully Vincent would understand. 

The kiss was slow, long, too short, forever, “Fairly certain he will, Eugene,” and he hoped he hadn’t said that earlier thought aloud, it was the sort of thought that could take all this away. “Why else do you think I called you an idiot? Told you to tell him in small words? It’s beyond obvious he set it aside as something impossible.”

“Tease, don’t tease me, it’s cruel, Irene, and wholly unnecessary,” Eugene pleaded. “Vincent doesn’t know the meaning of impossible, he doesn’t believe in its existence.”

“Eugene, I’d never lie to you about something like that,” she shook her head and kissed him again, and that time he shut up.


	3. Chapter 3

Awakening by inches, Irene felt boneless, relaxed. Something was different, and she groggily knuckled at her eye one handed. Then her pillow shifted strangely. And it was fuzzy. Very fuzzy. That was different, and she hummed, rubbing her cheek into it a few moments, yawning and releasing a sigh once or twice.

“Can’t hear the waves,” Eugene made a curious sound in the back of his throat, and Irene hoped he didn’t drop a whole novel of words on her right away. He could read the most dry textbook aloud and it would be captivating, but not first thing when waking up. Fingertips tucked her hair around and away from her neck, and she sighed, burrowing in, listening to the heartbeat echoing in his chest, and also enjoying the lovely sensation of his fingers rubbing over her bare shoulders, her bare neck. “It’s different.” A squawking caw, and that was a rooster making his morning rounds, “ _That’s_ really different. Are they always so loud? What foul creature dares screech so at this hour?”

“It’s a rooster,” muffling a laugh in his chest. “Folks keep them about so the hens’ll lay.”

Bottom lip tugging down into one of those pretend pouts where he complained about something in a put upon tone, but never actually meant it, and she wondered if he was copying somebody, aping their behaviour from back in his homeland. “Oh, well, alright then, but do you think they could do their mating songs somewhere that’s not right under our bedroom window? It’s worse than Aunt Lucille's peacocks, and I thought nothing was worse than those abominations...”

Worried that he would go into one of his tangents before her mind was fully awake, Irene leaned up and kissed him in hopes of making him forget some first thing in the morning rant that he found amusing, and she would no doubt find equally so after a few cups of coffee had been ingested, but not before. 

Each of the mornings she had awoken piled up beside him, she had wondered what it took to shut him up, and had toyed with the idea of a kiss over and over again. That had been something she shelved constantly, an overstepping of boundaries, uncertain that he would understand how she felt. How she missed Jerome, how she wished he were home, how she was biding her time, keeping distracted from her worry it had been a mirage, a phantasm of no real substance between them. But Eugene was there. He was there every day, every night, no matter if she went to the pair’s house. He was solid in a peculiar way she hadn’t expected someone to be, and most of all not him. The world through his eyes was one moment something beautiful, the next, startlingly hard, the disappointment in himself the darkest part of it all. At first she had begun to keep an eye on him for fear of what he would do, the whole time shouting inside her mind the question of how Eugene could hurt Jerome that way, when Jerome loved the man so dearly. That reason to stay around him, seeking his company, had shifted into genuinely enjoying time spent with him, and the surprising discovery of how she didn’t have to wear her own masks around him like she did with the outside world, she was free to be herself without fear of reprisal.

The last two days before the launch, Irene had had flashes of jealousy, or envy, perhaps, at the way the two interacted, the way they complimented one another, the way Jerome carefully watched Eugene with such a softness... Those flashes would disappear almost as soon as Jerome would look at her, would interact with her, and she realized that no, she wasn’t the intruder, she wasn’t the unwitting mistress fooled the way she had feared when Detective Anton had made her escort him to Jerome and Eugene’s home, when she had seen perfect, impeccable, affable, Eugene sitting there beautiful and glorious, unfazed by the inquiry. When she had laid eyes on him, Irene had been so certain that there was no way it was any competition, he was perfection, the piece de resistance, while she was a breadroll on a side plate. What was between those two men had been on open display, yet carefully screened, so that neither one risked hurting the other, fearing and feeling similar things. She should have felt left out, secondary, the silver second place medal that Eugene harped on occasionally. Except Jerome never had allowed that, always made the effort...and so had Eugene.

It was a different kind of love perhaps that she felt for Eugene. It was certainly something, something warm, solid, safe, built on a little more each day. There was time to share, time to know, time to learn... While Jerome had been a nearby presence, a nod, a tiny bit of discussion or dialogue about some nuance of the Titan project for _years_ , they had not reached out to one another until their time was almost up. Everything with Jerome had been fast, yet it felt solid, more real, than anything Irene had ever experienced, no matter how brief the time. And that was terrifying. Either the idea that it was actually that real, that solid, in such a tiny time, or the thought that once he returned, she would realize it was just hormones, stress, and a bit of attraction. Both were awful, unwanted outcomes, and that was why she had felt the all consuming need to run. But Eugene, things with Eugene had their stresses, their aggravations, and oh god, the launch day, the day Eugene had come so close to successfully dying, but that had been the worst of those intense moments... That had been more than quite enough high stress and adrenaline to suit Irene just fine. 

His mouth tasted of sleep, the lush lips she had wanted to kiss to silence whenever he would go on and on, moved in easy, practiced, sure footed reply to hers, and there was a hand, under the covers, caressing her back, while the other moved lightly, finger tapping from one side to the other, of her shoulders. Scooting up, wanting closer, smoothing a hand over his chest, his shoulder, squeezing the side of his neck in a feather light press and over his face, his jaw, into his hair, becoming lost in that simple activity. Finding herself shifted, guided, slowly onto her side, then her back, Irene let her nails score a shallow path down his sides, a gentle glide over his ribs, slipping around to his waist, then charting a returning path to broad shoulders, and holding fast to him where a moment ago she had been laying marks that would disappear in heartbeats. 

She meant to participate more, didn’t mean to lay back and enjoy, but Eugene kept kissing her, or holding her hands just so, distracting her for a moment or two before the heat of his mouth was meandering over her chest. Stubble tickled her shoulders briefly, he liked those for some reason, was always finding an excuse to touch them, to kiss them, lay his head there. Whenever he paused the exploration, Irene cupped his cheeks, thumbs running over the high bones, or his forehead, his eyebrows, tracing him, painting each line in her mind’s eye, wanting to memorize it all. 

Wet heat, tongue tracing, over a sensitive, ticklish spot on her hip, and she laughed, squirming, garnering a similar laugh from Eugene. Felt his lips curving on a smile she couldn’t see, even with the light country blankets that had been provided by the hostel thrown off, but she could feel it, feel the way his lips smoothed over against her skin and how his cheek twitched up on that invisible grin. Parting her thighs for him, Irene reached down between them, spreading her labia too, and felt his tongue quickly move over her knuckles in a brief erotic touch of an unexpected direction. All she managed was a hum before breath was sucked out of her lungs on a frozen moan as Eugene fastened those lips of his firmly over her ridge while applying suction that began slow, light, until he found whatever it was he needed that left Irene arching, her legs wrapping around his chest, his back, feet sliding over the broad expanse, bucking, she hadn’t expected that, hadn’t thought - whatever she had thought, she hadn’t expected something so fast, so targeted. But just as she felt her spine arching off the mattress, thought she was about to fall and have it be over already, he moved. And she sang gasping and clutching, her muscles shaking with each exploratory, probing, or smoothing lap of tongue, or the dancing, skittering of its pointed tip this way and that, the suction of his mouth over her, but it was his echoing moan as he tasted her release, that left Irene trembling for other reasons. In that moment, just as she had in Jerome’s, bed, she understood the longing, the insanity that would drive a person to risk a faith birth, a love birth, anything, because that mingling was supposed to be what brought two together to mix and make a new life. Only them, only with them, had such a dangerous and heady thought touched her.

Palm under her belly button, cheek pressed to her thigh, and she felt Eugene’s fingers slide in, not quite filling, but still good, still something she wanted, and she reached down, needing to touch him, to feel him too. Muscle spanned those shoulders she could just barely caress with her hands, and she did what she could with her feet, her calves, where they framed his torso. Carding her fingers through the thick hair at his crown, shivering with every deep stroke of his fingers, kiss of his lips over her sex, “Eugene - please,” trying to do no more than bask and enjoy, to reciprocate with what contact was available, but the more he touched her and the less she was able to touch him, the more Irene struggled to reach his shoulders and tug him up and over her. “I need you.”

A pleased, self-satisfied hum, another whimper inducing set of kisses, before finally, finally, Eugene came slightly closer, whereupon Irene grasped his shoulders, doing her damndest to pull and pull, no longer urge, but he resisted, a frown gracing his features, and she wanted to wipe it away, “Things don’t work quite the way they used to, darling.”

Curling her fingers over each shoulder, thumbs digging into collarbones, she pulled, useless as it was, head thumping back on the pillow letting loose an exasperated laugh, “It doesn’t matter, Eugene, I want to feel you over me, I want to hold you, feel you against me.” Punctuating it with another tug, “That’s more important than how things used to work, Eugene.”

A brief hesitation then, like he thought he could disappoint her by fulfilling her request. Still, he complied, and Irene shuddered at the way he dragged himself over her and hovered for a moment until she tugged him down by the shoulders, legs wrapping around the backs of his lax thighs. Irene kissed him, tasted herself, kissed him more, not disappointed, not a bit, her caresses exploring for that invisible line on his back, at his hips or waist, that said that was the border of where feeling and lack of it, began. Libraries were excellent sources of information beyond the black hole of more behavioural health issues. Eugene let loose a startled breath when she found it, and she traced winding lines over it a time or two, just to be certain, her teeth catching at a nearby earlobe, when he pressed closer, face in her throat. 

Rolling her hips up as she felt thickness tap against her thigh, Irene let a hand trace a path between them, rubbing his chest, pressing for enough room, making sure to grip and massage in that touch, listening to his bitten back sigh. “Life finds a way,” she whispered, gaze locked on his, the motions similar, but not the same, to encounters she’d had with other men, and he’d likely had before his injury. Both hands now, while watching him, measuring his expression, the darkness of his pupils, the flush, the want, all of which were reflections of what she felt, and she hoped he knew that, saw that, too. 

Sky blue, stormy sea at dawn, his eyes were those colours, and wilder than that, a hard press of his mouth to hers before drawing back, watching her hands, the occasional twitch and ripple of muscle, skin, shaking at the sensitive places probably he had few liaisons with someone who had any idea what to look for. Any other time Irene believed it would have been rueful, sardonic, witty, but right now, it was darker, deeper, rough around the edges, when she cupped his cock, one she hadn’t been expecting to be hard, but also had been forewarned - _Thank you **Universally Accessible Sex Positions** for being so informative_ \- so wasn’t astonished either. “‘Course it does, sweet, whenever you’re around,” his body flexing once, pressing himself closer, tighter, taunting her. “Not as reliable as I used to be, but sometimes I surprise myself.” Small laughter, both of them grinding together, but then the sensual play was ready to change when he demanded, “Guide me in, I want to watch.”

Books, curiosity, they had made her think it would all be very awkward, and at best fairly awkward. Except when she had been reading, surreptitiously seeking answers to something she hadn’t been ready to admit to aloud, hadn’t been willing to entertain - Eugene loved Vincent, and Irene loved Vincent, there shouldn’t be anything beyond friendship, camaraderie, between she and Eugene. So the heated dreams that had her waking up sopping wet in the mornings, or frantically playing with her clit at her own apartment, or hidden away in a shower, where no one would have to know the name that fell from her mouth wasn’t always Vincent’s. And she hadn’t consulted Eugene, not daring to upset what balance they had found by admitting she cared for him as more than friend, confidant, and that she also still felt for Vincent... 

Thighs spreading farther apart and Eugene raised his upper body to better see, to watch as her fingers directed that length, rubbed it over her wet folds, nerves tingling, before she pressed the blunt tip to her channel. It took effort, but she used her hips to do the work of teasing and circling deeper. It was blissful even as she stretched to accommodate, her body enveloping some of his, granting admittance, joining... It wasn’t anywhere near awkward at all. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” breathless, hungry, and Eugene added his own force of motion, the curse heartfelt and repeated between kisses, or in the side of her shoulder, against her neck, moaned in her ear. 

After - after Irene found out just how much power Eugene still had, how much control, and a thorough demonstration that he agreed, life would find a way, they lay there, tangled up on the hostel’s bed, the linens and blankets lost to the floor. No, none of it was placeholder, none of it was substitution like she had feared at one point, an identical fear that had been expressed last night by Eugene. This belonged to her, to him, to them, she was happy for its existence...but they still had a few hours of driving to go to reach her grandparents’ farm, and to get themselves presentable again, which would take longer...

Eugene was leveraging himself around like he often did, the years having made the movements economical, practiced, pants, socks, all the usual he dressed himself in, “Please tell me you don’t regret this, Irene.”

Twisting upright on the mattress, scooting to him, framing him where he sat, back turned, but his face canted so he could almost see her clearly, he was afraid again. Irene wrapped her arms and legs just so, to drape and frame, hooking her chin over his hunched shoulder, “Not a bit, Eugene.” Kissing the side of his neck, just behind an ear, “Not a scrap. I can’t regret my closeness and feelings for you, and I wouldn’t even if I could.” Squeezing him in a backwards hug, cheek resting on his shoulder, smiling, “You’ll just have to get used to being worthwhile. Tough luck, sucks to be you, get your licks in -”

“Oh, I intend to, you can count upon that, my dearest,” a much freer, relaxed laugh, than she had heard from him in too long was released.

XXX

Wind in hair, the convertible's top was down. Irene had poked his hand away from the switch, but he had simply shot her a winsome smile, gained the rolled eyes and her not very good attempt at hiding a smile of her own in reply to it all, and at that victory, he had employed the roof’s switch. The countryside here was very different, and he wanted to see it since they had taken all this time to come out this way. Green was more like sere grass, but still, green. Smaller trees, then sometimes, huge, enormous, towering copses, no, miniature forests, or perhaps that was just how the road went, driving between the dense copse. Surely they had touched upon the outskirts of a real one at some point.

Lots of rolling hills, some jagged bits that thought they were foothills, too. Not terribly interesting, but it was _out_. Perhaps he had needed the fresh air afterall. Wouldn’t Vincent be terribly proud? _Not particularly, he would be looking for the bottle of whiskey, vodka, brandy, whatever, probably even rifle through my wheelchair, check under my pillow, or even whatever book I was holding to see where I’d hidden my booze, thinking me pissed..._ No, not really, Vincent wouldn’t, that was Irene, she had been working on his bad habits far more diligently than Vincent ever had. Alright, she wasn’t awful about it either, but she would cast him that very, very worried face if she saw he polished off a whole fifth of some hard liquor or another in a day, though she only wrinkled her nose if he’d had a whole bottle of wine throughout the day prior to dinner. Damn, he was letting some woman civilize him.

Whatever, what was cutting back a bit in the face of food delivered, prepared, company, conversation, midnight joyrides, or using one of those fat wheeled wheelchairs meant for beaches so they could sit in the sand? Or the weight of her beside him in bed, the way her arms would wrap around him, keeping him close, or sometimes it was her burrowed into him At least she hadn’t asked him to stop smoking. Except in bed. Eugene could live with that until Vincent was returned, settled in, and then Irene and Vincent could...do whatever it was they were likely to do. And then Eugene could go fuck off, take that vacation to the other side of oblivion... 

So he looked around, he watched the terrain whizz by them, cast looks Irene’s way, ones she sometimes caught and would smile that way she did that made his heart clench while also relaxing all at once. This was a slice of heaven that was more than Eugene asked for, hoped for. It was enough, he would enjoy it, and use it to stave off the yawning chasm that was his desire to no longer be stuck with his broken body. 

Highway, good paved highway, was driven off of, the turn onto a dirt and gravel pack track that disappeared into another one of those dense gatherings of trees that spanned as far as his eye could see from his vantage point. That was the signal that they were almost there. Noonday sun was blocked off, screened and filtered by branches high, high overhead, the road was really just a set of wheel ruts that had been filled in somewhat by bags of gravel and sand, and was only wide enough to fit a single work truck. Possibly. Not a hospitable area for Eugene and his wheelchair. But he had known that, had counted on it, had listened to Irene’s summer stories, and knew about somebody’s pickup truck getting stuck in mud, and how her grandfather had taught her to take some branches and sticks and a loose shirt, shove it under the stuck wheel, and hope it gave enough traction. Yes, not the sort of place Eugene Morrow would be very ambulatory. 

Eugene’s comfort, needs, or health were not the point of the trip - _Irene’s_ were.

Suddenly the brambled forest opened up in front of the bonnet of the car, showing acres of cultivated green, some glints that if Eugene focused on them he knew were watering holes for the herds of sheep and goats the farm specialized in. The vista was scanned quickly, then he discarded that view, trading it for one he much preferred. 

Beside him, Irene was wearing a quiet, secret smile, her eyes lit up, cheeks with high points of excited colour, he doubted she was aware of it at all. All the shields, all the pretenses they wore in the day to day world, were set aside in this place, she was free. Eugene hoped to the often fickle fates that the time spent here would cleanse her of that ever increasing darkness she had been carrying around.

So lost in watching her he was that he didn’t notice when they pulled off to the side of a blue house with a blue and yellow barn framing the area Irene had chosen to park in. Just out of the corner of an eye, there were some tractors, some of those long bedded trucks, and another building tucked behind the barn that looked suspiciously like stables to him, not that he was any kind of expert. Not that he cared. 

Big shepherd mutts mobbed the car, tails wagging, woofs issuing from them, their noise yanking Eugene from the place his mind had wandered off to, causing him to flinch back violently in the car, arms coming up to shield himself. When he was able to stand up straight, dogs had never intimidated him, but now, the world was a much more unpleasant place, and frankly, more dangerous. A big dog could bowl him over, or may not be as playful as it seemed, sensing his weakness...or something.

Irene hopped out, coming around, hands waving at the pack, “Shoo, shoo, you settle down, and stop that. Get-get, g’on, get!” She sounded cross, but she was beaming, her attention coming back to him, hauling his folded up wheelchair out of the backseat, plunking it down and opening it up for him. “They’re just big puppies, sort of dumb, overeager, clumsy. It must be the babies from the last litter I heard about getting big enough to work the fields and herds.”

Hiding his discomfort behind a smile, Eugene opened his door, and hoped it didn’t look too much like a grimace, “I was going to ask if they were the sheep you were talking about shearing. So that’s what sheep dogs look like. Who’d believe it?”

Porch door swung and snapped shut, many sets of boots on the wood tapping along, and there was the part of the Cassini clan that were distant cousins. All but _most_ of the children under fifteen were (in)Valids Irene had told him, not quite coming out and asking him to be kind and polite to one and all, rather than the generally accepted behaviour of valids acting like asses and bigots. Lots of blond all around. Lots of light eyes. Lots of lovely features too in that group that had come rumbling out to greet them, to grab their suitcases, to hug and kiss Irene. He could see where the rootstock for her genes was quite clearly. (In)Valid or not, they were big, handsome people. Probably some sort of mostly northern European origin a few hundred years ago. 

There was a genderless, denim overall wearing child standing in front of his wheelchair...picking its nose, as it watched him.

Eugene made himself smile, though a lid may have twitched when whatever the kid had been digging for up that nostril was flicked to the side. _Oh god, I’m in hell._ Keeping the smile firmly in place, he aimed for friendly, leaning forward, since the rest of the pack of giants hadn’t finished their passing Irene around yet, “And what’s your name? I’m Eugene.”

“What happun to your legs, Mr. Eugene?” at least the brat had enough manners to call him ‘mr.’ and use his name. It would’ve been too much to ask not to be subjected to the fifth degree grilling so quickly. 

“Freak accident in a circus tent,” replying with absolute sincerity. “Elephant rolled right over me after I’d fallen from the trapeze.”

“You talk funny,” another child had opted to fix him in their sights and label him interesting. 

_Maybe it’s because I’m an adult that’s their height. Wonderful. Lovely. I’m going to be seated at the booger eating children’s table for meals. Why am I here again? Right, Irene._

“I’m English, we all talk funny because we were dropped on our heads around age five,” coming up with another outlandish, outrageous makebelieve pile of shit. “Knocks what little sense we’ve got right out of us.”

“So you’re sayin’ Mr. Eugene, that you’re stupid?” confused, head cocked to the side.

A barked laugh burst free at that oversimplification, and his eyes slid towards where he had last seen Irene, “I’ve it on good authority that that is the case.” Relaxing, sitting back in the wheelchair, “It’s not nice to call people stupid though, my Mummy would rinse my mouth out with a tea made of soap suds and wormy dirt if I said something like that.”

Sagely the nose picker nodded, “Yeah, it ain’t good ta talk bad ‘bout yourself, Mr. Eugene. If worms an’ dirt and soap is what it takes ta wash out all those bad kinds of thoughts ‘bout yourself, then your moma’s smart.”

 _That_ was _not_ what he said. Not what he implied! Not at all! How could they be so slow-witted to not realize what he’d been - he froze, replaying what he’d said. And almost began cursing, because that was definitely one way to take what he’d said. Little brat picked up on the subtle other possible meaning of what he rambled off, one he hadn’t even noticed. _Fine, nose gobblin who mines for your green gold, that’s a point on your scorecard._

Hands landed on Eugene’s shoulders before he could come up with some way of winning this unintentional battle of wits with uncultured children, and Irene’s perfume was in his head when she leaned down, her cheek against his temple, “I see you’ve met Piper and Nora, Eugene.” Directed at the hoydens, “You two being nice to my friend? He came out from the city with me to visit, he can be a little shy, city folks like to keep to themselves, they don’t even nod to one another when passing by on the sidewalk, can you believe it?”

The children’s eyes shot wide, horrified, Piper, the more precocious of the pair, and the nose picker extraordinaire, “They momas ain’t give’um a talkin’ to teach ‘um right?! How else you gonna stay friendly with ev’body if you ain’t polite? Who helps ‘um when bad things happen?” 

“That’s because in the city, nobody helps anybody,” Eugene said sourly. “At least not without payment. It’s a jungle out there.”

Irene gave his shoulders a warning squeeze, so he shut his mouth before something worse came out. 

“They’re busy all the time, day and night, they’re tired, they’re grumpy, and so they forget their manners, just in a rush to get to wherever they’re expected, or home, or to somewhere else,” Irene supplied. “Everything’s all close in, the buildings, the streets, or they’re so big that you feel like an ant marching along a tree branch. It’s hard to keep sight of yourself, let alone anybody else, when your world’s like that. But sometimes you bump into someone, or you see someone slip and fall, and you remember to be kind in that moment. That’s how friendships are made, real ones, in the city. And they’re all the more precious because they’re so difficult to come by.”

 _How sweet. God, look at those two, they’re gobbling it right up. I fucking hope they never step foot near a city, any city! They’ll be eaten alive if they believe that tripe!_ Eugene didn’t say any of that, didn’t let any of it show on his face, instead, kept the banal smile on his face, and nodded a few times, fingers crossing that _now_ this bit of show and tell could come to an end, and allow him to find a room, a closet, a dark corner, where he could dig through his suitcases and find a bottle to pour down his throat. _Different, she says, oh, oh my darling girl, my beautiful, lovely, perfect Irene, ‘different’ doesn’t begin to describe this place... Only for you would I be here. Alright, Vincent, too. Except knowing him, he’d like it here too, fuck, my taste in love interests is abysmal._

If only he believed in reincarnation. 

Then again, if that were a real thing, owing to what a shitbag he was for the most part in this life, he would come back as some parasite infested animal. Or something else, equally unpleasant. Nevermind, he could do without a second life, a rebirth into a life where he had better taste and stronger drive. Besides, Vincent was theoretically his second life, that should be enough. Generally, it was, and more than.

Hands on the handles of his wheelchair made him jerk while forcing the wheels up the slapped together ramp some soul had put up in the time between Irene’s call yesterday to say they were coming and just prior to Irene parking the car. He was tense, livid actually, it wasn’t Irene, she was just ahead of him, talking to someone, no one had a right to push or help him beyond her or Vincent, he wouldn't allow it, accept it. Biting the snarl back, _Ignorant bumpkins. I’m not weak! Can do perfectly well on my own, thank you kindly!_

“You got real pretty eyes, Mr. Eugene,” one of the pair of earlier brats said, Nora he thought, and there were a few other of the creatures pacing alongside, “not even Teddy’s got eyes like that, an’ he got all picked out by his moma an’ papa a’fore he was born, and his are like those blue stones you see in jewelry on the telly sometimes. Sapphires.”

Schooling himself to calm, never, ever let anyone see they had ruffled your feathers, “My parents forgot to say, they had to keep reminding the doctor that I was supposed to be blond, not a brunette. I think the doctor got bored with the argument and picked something in between, just to shut them all up, and here I am, golden haired and brunette in one. So I wound up with a lot of in-between, not quite this, or that. Makes me an excellent dancer, being able to shimmy between all those extremes.”

A smaller child let out a weird noise that took him a moment to identify - a giggle. Let it be known, taken down by some biographer interested in his generally pointless life, that on this day, he had made a child giggle, observed another one pick her nose for a solid fifteen minutes, and been told his eyes were pretty by a third. It would be the highlight of the chapter. If he was lucky, he could get a wheel stuck in a pile of fresh dog shit, except it would entail going back outside, and getting off the porch to where the enormous crap machines liked to mingle. Perhaps another day, something to look forward to, which he needed so he wouldn’t risk his eyesight by focusing his attention on the country-folksy-kitsch decoration all over the big house’s interior, and those impertinent children continued to push his chair to some room or another....

“It’s Aunty Helen’s sewin’ room most times, Mr. Eugene, Pawpaw and Uncle Boomer helped moved the stuff what around, and get one of the big beds in for you an’ ‘Reenie,” Piper, talkative Piper, supplied information, while some of the other children that had followed that he hadn’t noticed, came waddling in with he and Irene’s luggage, plunking it up on the bed with happy grunting heave-hos. “Wheels ain’t no good on stairs.”

“True, they are not,” he sighed, employing said wheels of his chair, winning free of unwanted assistance. “Puts a crimp in my style when I want to fly place to place on my jetpack, the wheels just weigh me down, as you see, the pack won’t run with the extra bit pulling on it.”

The group shuffled around a bit, watching him, and he stared back equally uncertain of what was supposed to happen next. Was this what explorers meeting new indigenous people felt like? Held in stasis, all norms of what was polite no longer holding as true as they had before?

Irene came in finally, oh thank god, saving him, shooing the children out, a folding slat door closed over their room’s small entrance. “I’m so sorry, Eugene, I kept getting hauled off by this or that relative to tell me the news, and I just...” 

Waving a hand, dismissing it, even as he drove straight for his suitcase, he began to rummage and dig until fingers hit glass, “They’re your family, Irene. Family tends towards impertinence when gathered together, lots of vying for this or that, you know, and all that sort of thing...I suppose.”

“You’re my family too, Eugene,” she sat down, in the same motion pilfering the bottle of vodka he had been working at opening, the cap had been more slippery than usual. “And you got mobbed by some of my baby cousins while I left you on your lonesome.”

Gruffly, leaning forward trying to snatch his liquor back, “Think - nothing - of - it, goddammit, darling, give that back. I need a drink after being manhandled by urchins.”

She laughed, and he froze, staring, as her head was thrown back, the column of her throat exposed, the mirth soaring free and filling her up all at once, and dammit, this was exactly why he was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how hard it is to look up certain kinds of information? 
> 
> Not entirely happy with the sex scene, it was awkward for me to write, whereas normally, that ain't nooooo problemo of mine.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything was upside down, absurd, and the grand vizier of the absurd, was Eugene and his constant air of being a sour cuss. Which he actually was, just not in the local tradition. He was always surrounded by her youngest cousins, and she just knew he was biting his tongue on constant streams of cursing - it wasn’t that he swore constantly in general, but he did have a tendency towards cutting remarks. Perfection, aplomb, and a vast deal of cynical intelligence was his pervasive air in all things, and he liberally would sprinkle all that with swears or insults dropped at the very moments when they would have the most effect. Now, with the children, this was all held back, curtailed into measured madness, coming up with nonsensical, impossible stories.

 

...Irene thought he was rather enjoying himself.

 

Helen was laughing about something beside her as they shelled peas, their fingers moving swiftly through the long green vegetables, and Irene glanced up to see what her cousin was cluck-cackling over. 

 

“‘Reens, that just ‘bout takes the cake,” Helen’s laughter was free, rich and full, as she nodded intermittently in the direction of the bit of yard and green that the chickens were frequently let loose on for some wandering. It was a spot where the younger children would often play, darting back and forth, rolling about, kicking or tossing a ball. Instead of the usual crowd of kids, there was Eugene (with his own customary crowd) in a heavy duty all terrain green pull wagon with high sides...with a pair of the bigger shepard mutts hooked up to the long handle, like a pair of horses in traces. “Would ya look at that, I ain’t never seen the like. What’s that boy think he’s gonna do, bless his little heart.”

 

Irene snorted, and her booted foot came out to firmly nudge her cousin however many times removed, in reproach, “He’s not stupid, Helen, just different. Besides, the kids love ‘im.”

 

Bea, Helen’s mom, hummed, not looking up from husking corn where she sat on the porch step beside the portable ramp JoJo had fixed up nicer than the original thrown together one, one foot tapping in time to some song like always, “And so do you, everybody knows so, and been waitin’ on you to come on and say it in your own good time.” Irene flushed, ducking her head, though she felt Bea pinning her with a sidelong look, “Only problem with that, is that if someone didn’t put a boot to your keester, we’d all be waitin’ ‘til kingdom come!” Face all hot, Irene’s shoulders hunched up to her ears, and she grabbed more peas to shell, trying to pretend she didn’t hear that. “That fancy boy of yours even know?”

 

“He knows,” mumbling.

 

“Can’t hear ya, hun, speak up,” she held a fresh ear of corn to her ear, leaning in. 

 

“He knows,” firmer, louder. “I told ‘im...a few times. We talked ‘bout it on the way here, Ma Bea.”

 

“Hmnhmn,” she seemed satisfied, at least for now, gaze sliding back to her task.

 

“And what’s he gonna do about it?” her cousin wasn’t going to let it go, especially now that the older woman had brought it up so bald. “I mean, sure, out here, he’s not got much he can do, but ya’ll don’t live out here full time, so that’s no hardship. He’s real pretty, probably got real nice genes, and he’s smart, but I’m not real sure what he’s good for...’cept in the city I bet he gets along just fine.”

 

Chewing her lip, Irene bought time, and the others were polite enough to let her have it. There wasn’t much she could justify, Eugene wasn’t a practical choice, and honestly, the Cassini clan didn’t care about that either. Helen and Bea were just trying to make sure things were right for her, acting in the same sort of family capacity folks did for kith and kin. Out here, a place would be made for a family member or friend who had been incapacitated in some fashion, or handicapped in this or that way, it’s just what was done, and nobody thought anything about it. People got married, started their own family, and if someone had a disability, that didn’t take them out of the pool of potential partners, even in the rare cases of extreme disability. Allowances were made, and people pulled together. It sounded so fucking idealized and fantastical, but small communities like the Cassinis, the Roebucks, the Hoights, the Chois, and a dozen others from the surrounding farms in the area, or the twenty or thirty families from the nearest small towns - they kind of didn’t have a choice but to all rely upon one another, take care of one another. Yeah, there were crazy dramas time to time, but folks were real careful to keep community, because so few were Valid, or had skills that the outside, modern world cared much about...it was take care of one another, or be crushed by the outside, Valid run industrial complex. 

 

So, Irene knew they weren’t getting down on Eugene for his physical limitations, they were just trying to get her to think about what there was, and what there could be. 

 

Pausing long enough to pour herself some ice water that was flavoured by fruits about to go off and not plentiful enough to can, Irene topped off the other women’s cups, too, before she plunked back down. She decided to start with what Eugene could add to the family, to the community, beyond genes, since really, that was the important thing to people who didn’t put much stock into the whole (in)Valid vs Valid thing. “He’s educated, real educated,” taking a icy cold sip, brow beetled, watching Eugene out there, arms waving, and gesturing, to the children in direction, as they worked on the wagon and dog combo for whatever purpose. “And he’s good with the kids, even if he seems real grouchy, he’s good with them, and they listen to him. He could teach, tutor, not just regular school stuff, but preparatory materials for college, and all the kinds of skills a body’d need to make it out in those places.” Admitting, “Even though I mostly grew up city, grew up ‘round Valids and all that, it was difficult to live in that world, when at home, or out here, I had this kind of life. It’s hard to keep yourself, to hear anythin’ other than what’s shouting at you from all directions. The little ones, they could get hurt, get lost, literally, mentally, all that - so, so easy. They could change, they could twist, all that, if they didn’t have some warnin’, some teachin’... He could teach them how to keep safe, keep themselves, all of the real important lessons that don’t come in books or classes or that others don’t think to pass on unless they’ve moved ‘tween those kinda spaces...”

 

Bea shifted to lean her back up against the white painted rail of the steps, making that one loose spoke that stayed loose no matter how many times it was replaced, repaired, ever since Irene could remember, squeak, and crossed her arms, thoughtful. “Ain’t just the little ones that need that, these days, ‘Reen. The old ways of doin’ business are passin’ on, the ones the businesses an’ such send on down, they’re changin’. The intermediaries, the rules, the inspectors even, it’s all changin’ ‘Reen. They’re always changin’, have since folks put seed in the ground, built buildin’s. It’s hard to keep up if you don’t know how to, an’ even if ya do, they come at ya from another angle. S’just the way it is.”

 

Frowning, worried suddenly, “What happened?”

 

Helen waved a dismissive hand, reassuring, “Ain’t nothin’ here, but the Huessines from Williston, don’t think you know them, but they’re next state over, work a hydroponic farm - they almost lost their shirts ‘cuz they listened to the wrong intermediary, trusted the wrong folks, got dazzled by some song and dance...” Shaking her head, “Some fine print came damn close to puttin’ them out. The Tens,” the ten state coalition of farmers and small towns that worked as an informal union for small places and family owned operations that weren’t swarming with Valids in control, or outside investor owned, “pooled and managed to put some pressure on where we could, in a few fronts, and got ‘nough funds to prevent some real interestin’ Arizona owned corp from takin’ all the Huessines had. They’ll recover, an’ those that threw in their two pennies’ll get theirs back too, eventually, an’ favours’ll be owed, you know how it goes, an’ ev’body in the Tens is rememberin’ just how much we all need one ‘nother, an’ to watch theyselves, to be even more careful ‘bout trustin’ outsiders...”

 

Bea shook her head, growling, “That’s a two edged sword right there,” waggling a finger demonstratively, “you mark my words. We can’t afford ta be so mistrustin’ that we get our own brand’a crazy, get so insular, so inward, an’ that. Or get so mistrustin’ that outsiders won’t wanna deal with us, or accept our new generations even if they only accept older generations conditionally - yet if we try to be hospitable, friendly, some’ll take that as us bein’ easy to pull the wool over.”

 

Classic problem, a bad one. One Irene should’ve thought of herself, should’ve asked about, should’ve paid attention to... Afterall, that’s what Mom’s job had been once upon a time, what brought her to the city - to act as intermediary to businesses, corporations, buyers, markets - and Daddy had been a business lawyer... She’d grown up knowing about those problems, yet had, for some reason, not considered that those problems would continue to exist, and would need someone to help facilitate. 

 

Nose crinkling, she tentatively offered, “I’m not business, not law, I’m space, stars, pilot, planets... What I know ‘bout law, ‘bout finance, could fill a thimble. But I could lend a hand sometimes, see if somethin’ sounds off, like somebody’s tryin’ to talk out both sides of their mouths. If some document or what -”

 

“‘Reenie, sweetpea, you don’t worry ‘bout that, but I’ll bend your ear now and again,” Helen reached out, patting her knee. Then she gave Irene’s leg a poke, “Now, c’mon, talk up what else yer man can do other than wear lavender shirts an’ leather house slippers, an’ market day slacks, lookin’ prettier than the May queen, talkin’ in that voice of his -” a teasing whistle, “lordy, if Boomer talked like that, none’a my babies’d managed to be planned!”

 

Bea laughed, “Good thing he’s yours, ‘Reenie, otherwise all the eligible girls would be mobbin’ the man! An’ lots of ones attached that should know better!”

 

She let out a throaty laugh of her own, because it was true. But nobody would approach Eugene, because it wasn’t right, he was with her, and because he wasn’t going to be staying. Cassini women wouldn’t touch a man who couldn’t be counted on to stay, barring special circumstances. “He speaks a few languages,” she offered by way of both returning to prior meat of the topic, while also dawdling just a touch on a trait that her kinswomen had admired. “And sounds just as lovely speakin’ those as he does english...”

 

Irene was about to mention the fact that he was actually extremely tidy (so long as she wasn’t around to watch him while he did it). Or that his cooking wasn’t stellar, she had found that his skill was increasing (she suspected it was a desperate attempt on his part to ensure that there was meat in his diet with more regularity than she made it) and that while she did the grocery shopping for the most part, as she enjoyed the task, he was adroit in keeping the household properly stocked in general, as well as managing the finances and bills. As to where he got the money, well, Eugene had admitted that Jerome was still receiving his Gattaca salary in timely, plentiful amounts, even with the fixer’s percentage removed, but that Jerome had also been able to amass a large nest egg without Eugene’s awareness to provide during the Titan mission. Those monies had been expanded upon by some kind of investments or fancy financial magic that Eugene knew how to do, so there weren’t any financial concerns as far as she knew. She had her own savings, which weren’t plentiful per se, but they were plenty sufficient for her needs, especially as she had put her house on the rental market recently, so she could move in with Eugene full time. 

 

She had been about to mention all those things, but didn’t get the chance...

 

Her grand vizier of upside down and bizarre let out a crazed whoop, and the kids yelled accompaniment, the noise grabbing her attention. Eugene waggled and waved old, cobbled bits of horse-tack that hooked dogs, wagon handle, and wagon together, making the canines bark, and lurch forward somewhat in confusion. Laughter bubbled up at the scene, echoed on either side of her, especially as the kids all made loud noises of disappointment that whatever the Englishman had planned, hadn’t worked.

 

“Blast and damnation you foul, four legged mutts!” fist shaking, which got the pair of dogs’ attentions, looking back over their shoulders at him, their big bushy tails wagging apologetically with howl-whines audible more than a dozen yards away. “Oh _fine_! Very well, if I simply must, you flea-bitten mongrels!” More firmly, the leather traces snapped, tight, confident, and Eugene’s voice escalated in a silly mimicry of what Irene had said to get the dogs to move when mobbing them that first afternoon, “GeEEET-geEEET! GeEEET-Ohn-noAW! Go’on naow-GET!”

 

Those were words the dogs knew, and knew well, and they surged forward, trying to obey, to get out of the way, excited, woofing. As a result, the wagon, with Eugene in it, began to bump along violently, and Irene was up in a flash, ready to race off, but during one of the bumpy jumps of the wagon, she saw he was strapped in firmly somehow. A few yankings got the whole mess turned, as he called out ‘left’, ‘right’, and ‘slow down fools!’, with corresponding pulling on the reins. A bright, jovial curse, and a switch was gently used as a prod one handed to reinforce his directions, and the whole thing turned into the kids racing after him while Eugene did a few experimental circuits.

 

Shaking her head, hand up to her eyes, shading them, “I’ll be damned.”

 

“Man’s a card, that’s for sure,” Helen cackled, having also stood up, fists on her hips. “That’s what Piper was on about, that ‘special project’ in the barn, bet’cha they were teachin’ them dogs those things...” Snorting, “Alright, so he ain’t nowhere near a completely useless git, like Pa was worried ‘bout, I stand corrected.” Helen leaned on the nearest post, “If he treats you right, you got my nod on ‘im at least. Ma’s too. You still ain’t said what yer gonna do ‘bout it though. Or do they not get married in the city, these days?”

 

Irene sighed, wrapping her arms around the other nearby post, leaning in, cheek resting against the old, cared for wood’s smoothness. She couldn’t explain about Jerome, that wasn’t done, the sort of thing she and Eugene discussed... Except Helen gave her a way out.

 

Bea lay a hand on her shoulder, squeezing, “You leave off ‘Reen, Helen. Folks got their own ways, marriage ain’t so important, so long as people do right by one another.” Helen huffed, grumpy that her mother had overturned her customary authority as main head of the farm, and threw hands in the air, before grabbing the buckets of finished peas to take them to the cellar. When she was gone, “I ain’t wanna say it in front of Helen, but that boy’s more than foreign, more’n old money, ain’t he?”

 

Admitting, still watching the joyful spectacle of Eugene, children, and other dogs that weren’t out working, “Never said, never asked. It’s not important.”

 

“Not to you, prolly not ta him, neither,” knowingly, and Irene glanced at the woman that was old enough to be Mom, if Mom hadn’t died with Dad in a car accident so many years ago. Blonde had turned powdery grey in swaths, and there were firm lines all over her face, deep, but not thickly folded like crumpled fabric. Her gaze was fixed on Eugene as she spoke, “But it’d matter ta his people. If he got married, he’d hafta share you with ‘um. Hafta expose you to them, an’ if that wary, abused dog way he’s got ‘bout him is anythin’ to judge a man by, his people ain’t fit.” Eyes squinting, staring him down, measuring how he had managed to bump the wagon to a stop, lean over the high side to grab one of the smallest little ones who hadn’t been able to keep up and had plunked on their bottom to sniffle over it - how he plucked the child up, and pulled them into the wagon. How he started up the madness again, having set down the switch to keep one arm firm around the child... “The way he watches you, the way he acts, way he’s out here with folks his kind’d never sink to deal with so friendly - no way he’d risk you to his blood. Not even a little bit, not for a wedding, not for a visit, not even for a call, I think.” Nodding once, decisively, Bea shifted towards her, “Don’t you worry ‘bout any kinda official stuff with that man, hun, not ever. Him doin’ whatever he hasta to spare you his world, joinin’ you in yours, stayin’ with you - that’s more solemn a set of vows than a big ceremony. So don’t you worry, an’ don’t push’im on that front if you ever had a mind to -”

 

Blurting, “He rented himself, made himself a ladder for someone else to climb.” Clapping hands over her mouth, Irene stared, uncertain if Bea understood all those ramifications or not. Head cocked, waiting for more, and Irene swallowed thickly, “The other...th-the dengener, he’s an (in)Valid -” rushing to confirm what she prayed everyone in the family knew, “I don’t care about that part... It’s just that, it’s just that he wanted to got to space, and his-his profile, it’s not-” healthy, good, great, perfect, but she wouldn’t worry Bea with _that_ detail, “it’s not, they don’t accept (in)Valids _at all_ into the space firms as anybody who’d actually get to go into space.”

 

“And?” brows up, waiting still.

 

Taking a deep breath, Irene looked away, watching Eugene, finding the sight of him eased her, “Jerome took Eugene’s profile and used it, we worked together for a few years. He was always perfect, amazing, breathtaking, impossible - nobody was better than Jerome at Gattaca. And he avoided everyone, kept to himself, friendly to everyone, but...not friends with anyone either.” Irene leaned against the post again, grateful for its support, she couldn’t bear to see disapproval or something else, disappointment, in Bea’s expression, not until she got everything out. “I admired him and hated him, I just knew he’d get on the mission, he was perfect for it, and I was right, he did, because he is. While I knew, unless a miracle happened, the Director would keep me from space, because of,” she rubbed a hand over her chest, over her defective heart that she took daily medicine for, and kept emergency nitro pills on hand for, even though she’d only had a few times in her life where she’d been forced to take the emergencies. But the motion was explanation enough, her profile wasn’t perfect either. “But the perfect Jerome I knew, wasn’t what everyone thought. At least, not genetically, asthma, allergies, nearsighted, things that would keep him from space, he hid them all, and nobody ever had reason to question him...” Sighing, “He always watched launches. All of them. Every single one. Didn’t matter where they were going, so long as it was space, he’d find a way to watch them. I did too... I didn’t know if I wanted to be him, to know him, to like him, or to hate him, all at once, Ma Bea. Took me forever to actually try to talk with him, and when I did...”

 

Irene closed her eyes, murmuring, “People in that rank of society, in that level of excellence, in those kinds of places, I can’t even explain it right, explain what’s expected of us all. But it makes us cold, makes us stare at everyone around us, waitin’ for any sign of weakness, imperfection, while expecting nothing less than everyone living up to the highest level of skill. When I spoke with others, it was all cold, they were cold, we were all cold, measurin’, weighin’. I didn’t see it, couldn’t see it, or I’d go crazy, you know? But when I mustered up the gumption to tease, to do the kind of cynical, hard teasin’ that folks in that kind of place think of as bein’ friendly or flirty - he was warm. He was, he was _human_. And he was so sure I was everythin’ I was supposed to be, said I’d be up on the shuttle too, because he didn’t know, wasn’t in the loop of gossip, that everyone knew an’ wouldn’t say to my face - that I was too defective to go up. That I was hired because of legal quotas to accept ‘inferior’ levels of ‘perfection’.” She shuddered, “He didn’t know, and when I offered him a hair to get sequenced, when I tried to be tough and act like I didn’t care that I wasn’t perfect like him, and that someone with a profile like his wouldn’t want anything to do with me...he just, he just _let the hair go, smilin’ so kindly, so warm, and said the wind must’ve gotten it._ ” Blinking burning eyes, “I wanted it to be infatuation, wanted it to be him just looking for a bit of fun before a year stuck on a shuttle. But he was like that every moment. And he trusted me with his secret, I met Eugene, they both risked and trusted me,” no need to go into the exact details there, but that was the gist of it. “I could have destroyed Jerome, could have kept him trapped on earth the way I am, ruined the dream that carried him through his childhood, his entire life. If I was the kind of Valid that Gattaca valued so much, I would’ve done it, Beatrice. I would have done it.”

 

“You would’ve hated yourself for the rest of your life, not just because you weren’t raised that way,” Bea eased an arm around her shoulders, urging her in, but not making her look up yet to see what was there. Calloused thumb and finger on her chin gave a push though, and Irene was looking at the woman who was so used to standing in as _mater familias_ , even if Helen was the head of the clan functionally, Beatrice was still everybody’s mother in the end. “Your Jerome’s up in space for a year, and while you worked with him for some years, you didn’t really know him until right before he left, huh? But Eugene’s here, every day, and a friend. It’s easy to love that, even if you care -” Irene was about to interrupt, correct, and Bea amended, reading her, “even if you love him, he’s far away, and Eugene’s not. And he loves you. That’s gonna be a mess.”

 

Whispering, “Jerome loves Eugene.” That brought a flicker of surprise, “They lived so close together, worked so well together, that makes it’s own kinda love, Ma Bea, and...and from watchin’ them, they both thought the other - that it was just family, brothers, friends.” Shaking her head, gaze fixed on Bea’s, “It isn’t. Jerome’s...” Struggling to find a word -

 

Bea made a knowing face, lips twisting, amused, droll, “‘Reenie, if you think I’m so stuck up, I don’t know that gays exist, then you got some sense knocked outta you at some point. Back when I was young, and some before it, the world was a lot wilder, more acceptin’. Alright, Jerome’s got an interest in men, Eugene’s got an interest in men, but neither dimwit realized the other one was into that?”

 

“Sorta,” giving a soft laugh, straightening, feeling suddenly free. Tucking a few loose hairs behind her ear, “Eugene’s more of a...a man who doesn’t mind women -”

 

“‘Specially not the right one,” eye rolling.

 

“But likes men more, and Jerome’s...umn,” brow furrowing, she pondered it, and shrugged, “it doesn’t matter, if he’s attracted, he’s attracted...”

 

Bea nodded, shifting to rest her weight on one foot, skeptical about something still, she could tell, “So, since they’ve got feelings for one another, an’ for you, an’ are into men and women, you think, what? That you can have ‘um both? That you three can all...” Making a face, hand waving a bit, “I ain’t care much what society says ‘bout people like that, that they’re all horny an’ not able to settle down with one person, ‘cuz it ain’t true, that’s for damn sure. People like loyalty, security, way more often than not. It takes a whole lotta work and effort to do that, or do you think that it’ll just, poof, everyone’s alright, or -”

 

“Eugene says he’s had umn, group relationships before,” shrugging, later she could be shocked about Bea’s statements, her acceptance of the generalized idea. So much for hyper conservative family... “And think ‘bout it, because of the profile lendin’ and all’a that...they’re used to working real hard together, with one another, otherwise they would’ve been found out years ago.” Trying to impress the significance to her, “Gattaca is known for being one of the most stringent and impregnable corporations for security, more than almost any major government. Infiltration would be so difficult, it should be counted as impossible.” Finger jabbing into her opposite palm, “But they did it. They did it for more than three years. They did it even when there was a massive murder investigation in the department, with hoovers and detectives in and out. The level of dedication and communication they’d hafta work with...” Seeing Bea soften, seeing a worried, heartsore expression, Irene looked away, “Oh do stop that, Beatrice, I know what you’re thinkin’ on _that_ front. Thought it myself when I saw Eugene the first time...thought that I couldn’t be anythin’ other than a side dish, a sauce, when compared to what they have, what they are.” Deep breath, “Jerome refused to let me believe that for very long. They both worked at makin’ a place for me.” Off to the side, Irene saw that another child had wound up in the wagon with Eugene, both nestled in his lap between his arms and the reins, she voiced what she hadn’t dared to Eugene, “If Jerome hadn’t left and asked me to check on Eugene,” Irene had to pause, to swallow, a strain entering, because she wasn’t going to think about Eugene being dead, because that wasn’t what she needed to say, “if I hadn’t gone to check on him, hadn’t realized he needed a friend as badly as I did - I wouldn’t have gotten to know him. And when Jerome got back, no matter how accepting, how lovely Eugene would be, a part of me would resent the fact that Eugene had to be there.”

 

“Hmmn...” Warily accepting, “What you and Eugene have’s special, ‘Reen. That’s love. And I think you’re right that you got love for Jerome, but I don’t know the man, so I can’t say, other than judgin’ from how you and Eugene are, to guess at his opinion to go along with yours, and say Jerome’s got love for both of you, too, real love. But sometimes,” voice dropping, “sometimes love ain’t enough. And Jerome’s gonna have been gone for a year, he’ll be different, you an’ Eugene, you’re already different, close. Someone, maybe all three, maybe two, may get left out in the cold with their heart broke.” A smooch pressed to her cheek, a sideways maternal embrace, “Hope it ain’t so, an’ if you need anybody to talk to ‘bout it, don’t you hesitate to call me, don’t matter time or day. When Jerome gets back, ya’ll take it slow, and don’t get too riled up if any of ya’ll get skittish or jealous or worried ‘bout your places, since that’s a surefire way to wreck things a’fore they get a chance to settle. Communicate, work on it, an’ try to keep your head.”

 

Mustering a smile, laying her head on Bea’s shoulder, “I’ll keep it in mind, promise.”

 

Eugene finally had brought the wagon up close to the porch, sweat beading his brow, dogs panting as they flopped on the ground, worn out and happy with the bowls of water put in front of them. “And Skylar said it couldn’t be done! That I, a city-slicker, couldn’t train these stout hounds and manage a conveyance fit to go over the wild terrains of the farm!” nose in the air, imperious, waving a hand in the ten year old boy’s direction. “So I’ve come into possession of a blue marble the same shade as your eyes, my darling,” fishing out his prize as though it were a great treasure, the picture of regal and haughty superiority, “I think I’ll add it to my collection of seashells and buttons for the next time we go to the beach and you gull me into building sandcastles.”

 

Laughing, coming down the steps, ruffling heads, patting shoulders as she went, Irene bent over, hands just over her knees, “If Skylar bet you that marble, what’d you wager?”

 

“Oooh! A KISS! A KISS!” the girls squealed, while boys made heaving sounds. 

 

Piper, clearer, louder, not the oldest, but definitely the brains as usual, “Mr. Eugene said he didn’t have anythin’ worth bettin’, but that you’d give ‘Lar a kiss to pay the debt.” 

 

Scoffing, “Tattletale!” To Irene, playing the cad, his laughter poorly hidden, and the children were giggling at his playing nefarious liar, “I’d never wager your affections, like some sort of item to be bartered and sold, sweet! What kind of ars-” correcting himself, “rake would I be to do such a dreadful thing?!”

 

“Did too!” Piper stuck her tongue out, and Skylar stomped agreeing silently.

 

“Did not, I _said_ that I was certain that the victor would receive a kiss from the most lovely of lovelies, the dearest of dears, the wondrous of wonders, simply as a matter of course, and that that was more reward than most have any hope of gaining!” holding the act for a moment longer, and then listing to the side, laughing, and squeezing the four year old Alyth that he’d gathered up at some point during the play, and plunked a lip smacking smooch on a chubby pink cheek, to mad giggles, the little girl squirming around to throw her arms around his neck, and ‘mwah’ at his cheek in reply. “And lo! I have been doubly rewarded!” Holding Alyth up, “Alright, someone wrest this child from my grasp, before I decide I actually need to make one of my own before I’m of proper maturity and age, which shouldn’t be for at least another forty years before anyone even remotely considers me mature!”

 

XXX

 

The months seemed to both drag on and slip by. Holiday season was spent at the farm, a place Eugene did not fit in, couldn’t fit in, wasn’t really comfortable in. And yet when they weren’t there, the blurring and soft focus of a more than six hour drive distance, made him sort of miss it. The robust men of the Cassini clan would invite him to sit out on the big back porch, drink beer, some of his own liquor, some brandy or schnapps someone’s son made, or a hard cider that was made by Meghan Cassini that was one of the seemingly hundreds (perhaps there actually were, Eugene tried very hard not to count them all or even keep proper track of them) cousins that lived in houses that dotted the enormous farm close enough together to prevent isolation, but far enough apart to not leave everyone cheek to jowl in general. Back porch sessions were spent mostly smoking, sometimes a cigar, sometimes a pipe, sometimes a cigarette, and _sometimes_ someone brought out some tobacco-marijuana mixed cigar things they called ‘blunts’ but Eugene had always called ‘spliff’, but to each their own. And poker, there was often a great deal of poker, or dominoes. Strangely enough, there was singing, and it wasn’t even drunken singing, or religious mummery either. Whittling, carving, sometimes a group of the menfolk (Eugene of course being expected, whether he willed it or no, a look from Irene always making sure he went out there to be _sociable_ ) would have books, this that or the other, and occasionally a book was selected to be passed around and a chapter read by each man whose hands weren’t busy with a hobby. The books were interesting, lots of history, lots of plays, lots of mythology, and a great many of the classics spanning from Gilgamesh on up to the last century’s. Those times, whatever book ‘PawPaw’ chose would be devoured over not much more than two evenings... Alright, so the evenings spent with the salt of the earth types hadn’t been so onerous as he’d feared. In fact, he often found them far better at intelligent conversation than Valids he’d gone to school with. 

 

Days at the farm, if it wasn’t holidays where the people purposefully kept sedate as much as possible for filial bonding and all that guff, Eugene would find himself mobbed by children of varying ages for an hour or three, then most of them would be carted off by parents or whomever, leaving him with a far smaller number of the urchins. Urchins that he would quickly find himself tutoring in penmanship, reading, language, literature, history...the older ones, mid teens and a few early twenties in a couple cases - those he had been urged first by the menfolk in the evening, then by Irene, and then, far more clearly, by the generally quiet and unassuming Ma Bea, to do whatever he could to educate those who seemed to be the most likely to survive heavy interaction with the world away from the community’s cocoon. Eugene didn’t want to care, didn’t want to invest himself in those endeavours, but they bloody needed it, that was obvious. He tried hard not to be too hard on them, to not let his impatience and ambivalence for the task to get the better of him... Sadly, there were times he wasn’t always successful in that. Etiquette was easy. Manners, how to speak even, what to keep an eye out for - easy enough. It was the subtleties that were hard... Anyway, he did what he could, knowing it likely wouldn’t be enough, he’d just have to hope it could at least buy them a bit of leeway, preparation, time, to figure out how to navigate what was - to Eugene - the real world.

 

As for the holiday season at the farm, during the day, some arse-biscuit had found out that he was able to ride. He’d blame Skylar, the kid had a penchant for bragging, and that always led to Eugene intending to put him in his place, only to find the tale told around until everyone had to see him do a chinup while strapped into his wheelchair, walk on his hands if his legs were tied to splints to keep them straight, down a pint in a single swallow, so on, so forth - and someone (in this case, he’d blame the more enterprising and inventive of the children, it was the sort of thing they’d do) cobbed a saddle together that he could be strapped into. To say it was embarrassing - humiliating, shame inducing actually - to have one of the burly cousins be the one to hoist him from wheelchair and into a saddle, then strap him in, was the understatement of the last millennia. The first three times it had been done, Eugene had struggled to contain bitter tears of rage at how helpless he was, how he couldn’t even mount a fucking horse, when he’d been riding ponies on his own since age four. At least it was only Boomer Cassini who was ever witness to his face flushed with the riot of emotions, since he was the one who always ‘volunteered’ for the job. 

 

He hadn’t wanted to hear the generally quiet man’s reassurance that had come during the first time extracting him from the saddle after hours spent riding around the farm where Eugene had quickly remembered how peaceful riding could be. He hadn’t wanted to hear Boomer tell him he could only imagine the kind of strength it took to allow someone to lend a hand even a little, when he was so used to doing every little thing for himself. He hadn’t wanted to hear Boomer tell him that he was sorry it was hard, that he’d make it as quick and easy as possible because he respected Eugene. He hadn’t wanted to hear Boomer say he was glad Eugene was there, that Eugene was welcome to the farm, that he was family. Worse than that, Eugene hadn’t wanted Boomer to hear, to see, him break down and finally cry after the third ride was done, because the giant was really only 5’9” but was so big in other ways, that Eugene had felt small, childlike, and broken down as the man had unstrapped him from the saddle, picked him up, half cradling him like a child, in preparation to set him in the wheelchair...that Eugene had shattered. His father had never done anything like that, but his old riding instructor sometimes would find Eugene when he was very little, out in the stables with the horses, in the hay, and pick him up like that, carrying him off to be tucked into the man’s small, flat above the stable, snuggled up on a brown tweed sofa that smelled of horses and hay. Crying like a baby in somebody’s arms like a lost little boy - talk of humiliating, speak of embarrassing - all with the overwhelming sense that he wanted to wail that he wanted his father... Eugene hadn’t wanted to hear Boomer all but read his mind towards the end of the crying jag, rocking him, patting and rubbing his back, that it was alright to miss being safe in a parent’s arms. 

 

Eugene hadn’t the heart to tell the man that his parents hadn’t ever done anything like that. Besides, that would’ve been the straw that broke the camel’s back in terms of disgrace. There would’ve been no way Eugene could’ve shown his face after that. And since he’d managed a daily ride after that childish - thankfully _private_ \- display, he’d clearly managed to avoid spilling his guts that he wished he’d been brought up in a family with even a touch of how close the Cassinis were to one another.

 

December and early January, that was all at the farm, and the longest consecutive amount of time spent there. Otherwise, he and Irene somehow wound up there for a weekend once a month. (Eugene would only take the blame for suggesting it, because he was crippled, not blind, and he saw how Irene needed that time with her family.) Otherwise, the first visit was the other long one, and thankfully to whatever gods, demons, devils, spirits, demigods, angels, whatever didn’t exist but could be prayed or cursed as needed - that first visit had only been seventeen days. _Not_ that Eugene had been counting...at least, not after the fifth day, as he had gotten sort of distracted by someone mentioning something about bookkeeping and accounts, and he’d done all he could to throw himself into something that didn’t require constant touchy-feely family interaction or bodily labours his body was no longer up to. 

 

Valentine’s Day came and wen back home at the condot, a new pair of earrings graced Irene’s lobes, polished and rounded labradorite teardrops, chosen because they threw back his own green, Irene’s blue, and Vincent’s brown, eye colours depending upon how the light struck. A ring had been only considered for the briefest of moments, before reality and common sense struck him, and Eugene set the notion aside. A ring was something for Vincent to give to Irene at some later date, and hopefully in a ceremony kept quiet enough that word never got back to any Morrows across the enormous pond of the Atlantic Ocean. Couldn’t stop such a legal document from becoming public record, but if it wasn’t put out in newspapers, the ceremony was quiet (or at least in the sort of place of the farm outlying areas), and nobody in the Morrow (or his mother’s family, the Haneburys) got a wild hair to try and find him... Then Vincent and Irene would be safe from outside, ruinous interference. (Then again, so much time had passed since his family had seen him, that if they did somehow come upon Vincent wearing the Jerome Morrow identity, they would probably be unable to tell the difference...well, beyond the being upright part.)

 

Irene enrolled in some sort of...history courses that focused upon behavioural health, some old formats of sociology as well as present, and anthropology. She had done the unthinkable and actually brought in a computer, internet, all of that bollocks Eugene had avoided since leaving his old life behind, to the condo. And she put it in the fucking lab-incinerator-sample room. Which received an overhaul of its own, the medical equipment tucked aside behind a false, uniform, wall comprised of bookshelves. The incinerator was hidden too, and it was also right behind where Irene put her desk, declaring without words that to get to the as yet (since Vincent would eventually need it if he chose to continue working and wearing the identity of Jerome) unrepaired incinerator required going through her. Eugene hadn’t commented, merely ordered himself more books, bookshelves, and a desk that comfortably accommodated his wheelchair to help fill out half the room. By the contents of what Irene was studying, then confirmed by the things she read aloud that she’d written, she had gone the route so many upper class women did to keep busy if not working a ‘real’ job: advocacy. Most of the time, in Eugene’s experience, being a bitter bauble of an upper class wife was hard work amidst all the mimosas and luncheons, and volunteering for or advocating for some cause or other, was just a game, something to make themselves - and their husbands, and their families - look good. In Irene’s case, it was a crusade...thankfully, a quiet one. She hadn’t gathered the gall to really get in anyone’s face and do anything...she was cautious, would bide her time. 

 

...He would have to warn Vincent, because that could seriously get out of hand at some point. Imagine if she ran for office, somehow managed to actually _get elected_ , and all that! Eugene knew she could do something, would be good at it, that wasn’t the problem...it was the scrutiny that could be problematic, or even deadly. What a mess.

 

As for himself, Eugene brushed further up on law, taxes, and when Irene wasn’t home, medical texts. Medical was because they had no idea what condition Vincent would really be in when he returned, and he didn’t want to worry Irene, the human psyche studies did enough to drive her about half mad on their own without him adding Vincent’s health worries to the pile. Whereas the law and taxes? Easy to explain, it allowed him to advise the Cassinis, which rapidly was broadened to being a nameless advisor for the Ten State Coalition, on legal and tax matters, but more importantly, some intermediary assistance, preventing a repeat of the Hussein brouhaha that Helen had informed him of at some point. Felt utterly bizarre to be using his finance degree, felt legitimately insane, to be doing something so...middle class as _working_ , whether or not it was in an actual business office. Men of his background only worked occasionally, and those that did, usually only kept short days, took many holidays, and retired young unless they had managed to wrest some major social or political power. Still, it helped keep him occupied, and, as for the consulting fees the Cassinis - then later, any of the Ten funneled his way that he did the occasional bit of work for - insisted on giving him, Eugene put in a private fund. That fund was for Irene, in case she ever did go off her head and run for some sort of office, or, better yet - fingers crossed, since it was a preferable route - start a nonprofit/advocacy group. It was on a trigger, the account would become available to her upon legal documents being submitted for community record of a business, a campaign, or anything similar. Ah, the wonders of the modern era, and the fact that censored as American internet was, it could still be useful time to time. 

 

Slowly the condo transformed, sometimes Eugene noticed, realized it was happening, most times it didn’t matter what input he had in the decisions, the choices, he didn’t really _notice_ how the downstairs changed. One day he looked around, blinked, and realized how entwined Irene’s presence was with his, how the downstairs had evolved to suit them both, making a new version of home. Once, it had been almost all his own space, save the kitchen that was separated only by an island from the simple, small dining table fit for no more than four if they were comfortable with bumping knees, and a portion of the area around the bottom of the stairs as a sort of shared sitting room between he and Vincent. Yet, back then, with Vincent, it had felt homey, felt comfortable, if dark, and sometimes sending back shadows and echoes. But Vincent had done almost all his living at Gattaca, or, from Irene’s descriptions of Vincent at Gattaca, more accurately, Vincent had simply just spent the bulk of his _time_ at Gattaca, being that perfection and driven dreamer he was that screened out any world filled with the people around him, filling it with space’s silence and vacuum. Honestly, from the picture she painted, and his own knowledge of Vincent, the only time the man had _lived_ during those years, during the days and nights, was whenever he and Vincent would sit around talking, or sharing a meal, a drink, perhaps a drive, or the occasional sitting out near the cliffs - with or without a telescope to watch the night sky. 

 

And Eugene had thought his own life was boring and solitary. 

 

Irene’s cheek was a soft rubbing press against the side of his neck and she stretched out in the tub, nestled between his limp legs. Long, fine fingers traced the water darkened whorls of his chest hair - he thought it was strange she seemed so fascinated by it, but apparently Valids in their age range had either missed out on the hairy gene, or had it purposefully removed. Meanwhile, Eugene had been told that his had been altered to be somewhat less supposedly, but he stopped believing that by twenty-three when he was having to spend more than an hour every day shaving himself jaw to toe to keep himself fit for swimming, even in offseason, because it took too damn much effort to hack through everything if he let it grow out, it had simply better to maintain it. Granted, before the Olympics, Eugene had always noticed that he was on the hairier spectrum amongst his male compatriots not in swimming - since his teammates also tended to keep clean shaven, or, perish the thought, waxed, or lasered, or electrocuted, or whatever depilatory methods they saw fit to use. Yanks he had come across in England, and elsewhere in the world, hadn’t had much body hair, either come to think of it, perhaps it was some sort of weird aversion, at least in the well bred, educated, or monied set, and he was certain Irene could shed some light on the observation, if he actually cared about the strange tastes of others who weren’t his loved ones. (A number of people that was precisely two, but with enough wiggle room to extend to ‘care in general about wellbeing, just not opinion’ to the Cassinis.) In any event, Irene liked it, would often rub, stroke, tangle, tug, or drag her fingers through what was not just on his torso, but also his forearms for some reason or other. He did occasionally ask if he had a hairy back, because that was where _he_ drew the line, which he was grateful she agreed on too - for him, it made him think of his disgustingly hirsute grandfather, and for her, it made her think of quite a few of the old men at the local swimming hole that the farming families and the small towns visited during hot summers.

 

A light twisting tweak over his nipple caught his attention, and Irene repeated what she said, “Everybody’s lonely in this world in some way or another. There’s those who work to overcome that, to build bridges -”

 

Dipping his hands in the warm, black pepper-sandalwood (for him) with a dash of jasmine (for her) scented water, Eugene let crystal droplets fall from his fingers as he raised them free, watching the light refract barely in the tiny beads, dryly teasing, “Darling, the Cassinis are pioneers and paragons of that grand labour. Give them unlimited funds, and a couple full generations of Valids raised in the special Cassini method, and they could manage to singlehandedly vanquish loneliness the world over.” As though informing her of a vital bit of information, “Your family is rather prodigious, and ascribe thoroughly to the ideology of the more the merrier. Are you quite certain that they’re originally a joint group of some sort of...northern mountain Italians mixing with French, Swiss, Austrians, and some other potentially pale types rather than Irish under an assumed surname? Because honestly, those are the only Western Euro group I’ve come across that still breeds like rabbits, granted, only the upper class, but they treat those women like broodmares for Valid births - there’s triplets even!”

 

She gave him a light poke with her elbow, and he smiled face pressing into her pinned up hair, “You’re terrible.” Irene craned her neck enough to peer at him from the corner of her eye, “Triplets? Really? The obstetricians _allow_ that?”

 

Singing a silly song from an old movie that Irene probably had no idea about, “ _Every sperm is saaacred._ It’s a baby to them as soon as sperm and egg meet, don’t waste God’s gift and all that. Ah, modified Catholicism, I’ve always adored its pageantry, its theater, and the ability to twist and wriggle itself into whatever stance is completely opposite to whatever prior established tenets it had...without abolishing those old tenets. It used to be that anything other than natural, no outside interference, intervention, not hormones, not IVF, not donor, whatever, conception was considered natural. Hell, there was a large portion that was against adoption even for couples who couldn’t conceive without medical assistance.” Sniffing, “Probably best not to get me started on that, theoretically I’m baptized Anglican, but I went to a ruddy Catholic school for awhile, I could go on for far too long. And I heard enough from a Jewish friend to go on about that, just give me good old fashioned disappointment, cake, and painfully polite keeping trap shut of the Church of England.”

 

“You’re doing the not making sense again,” scooting down deeper in the tub, sighing with relaxation, not annoyance. “I shouldn’t have gone into aeronautics, I should’ve gone into tech engineering and programming, then maybe I could come up with a reliable device to translate Eugene-Speak.” Distantly, the feeling was a shadow of what he remembered when his spinal cord had been intact, Eugene felt Irene drag her nails over the top of his thigh, squeezing and petting, affectionate and sensual, and possibly absent-minded rather than purposeful. He still couldn’t always tell, couldn’t always read her, then again, she had the same issue with him, as much as they shared, as much as they worked to lower the walls the world required of them, it wasn’t perfect, wouldn’t ever be perfect. And that was alright, a bit of uncertainty kept life interesting. “The families you’re referring to figure that going against rules that haven’t been fully canceled out and updated to allow for medically induced pregnancy, with genesequenced fertilized eggs, that if they implant _all_ of these unnaturally designed bits of DNA, and have a dangerous, overcrowded, and wholly unnatural pregnancy...makes up for not doing it the old fashioned, sweaty way, and that their religion will thus be alright with it? God’s omnipresent, do they think that carrying four Frankenstein babies will fool God or something...?”

 

Snickering, Eugene only shrugged. Put that way, it was even more absurd. To him at least. But some of his classmates would beg to differ loudly if given opportunity. There were a few things Eugene could appreciate about the rampant spread of eugenics and genetic science in day to day life of most people - it sort of ruined religion. Then again, religion came in cycles, it served its purposes, not all of them good, not all of them bad. It was all just some social law in one guise or another, law of man, law of god, whatever. Not important to him, beyond how it impacted literature, film, plays, and other forms of media like that. (Religion had, and still did in many ways, but religion had nothing to do with the world’s conservatism and moral majority shite rampant in current society.)

 

“What? That’s basically what you said,” Irene rolled her eyes, and her head, the well worn rhythm of their not-arguments, not-complaints doing what it always did for Eugene - provide him with another reason he didn’t resent another day alive. It wasn’t time wasted, borrowed time, but not wasted, never that.

 

Using his chin to roughly trace her left collar bone, arms slipping under the water to hold her more snugly to him, “Natural twins still happen time to time, identical twins are a hiccup during the combining-dividing process. They’re not entirely certain why it happens, or who it’ll happen to. There’s things that increase or decrease likelihood...” Brow furrowing, Eugene’s inner sense that said he needed to be paying attention, that he had _missed_ something, began to go off, and he went over what had been said, trying to figure out just how they got there. Trying not to sound too wary as he suddenly felt a bit like his brain had been struck by lightning, and very glad that he was the one sitting behind her, as, if the positions were reversed, she would be leaning around to stare him in the eye if asking him something like this, “Dearest, are you...thinking perhaps...about...babies? Or am I missing something?”

 

“What? No, you’re the one who brought up people who’re crazy enough to birth litters, while you were poking fun at my family,” snorting, incredulous, sitting up straight, for all the world looking like she’d caught a whiff of him after he’d done too much working out on the modified gym equipment they’d purchased at some point without having taken a shower before getting distracted by a book or something. Smelly, but not exactly disgusting. Then her gaze focused, her features softening, hands coming up to frame his cheeks, “Or are you hinting?”

 

Babies? Children? _Him_? That would be a no. He didn’t even think he was capable of that. Ejaculating wasn’t something he had managed since the accident. That may not even be possible, spinal injuries and unassisted sexual reproduction weren’t much of anything he’d looked into, beyond some extremely general biology and physiology. Babies and rings were for Vincent to have with Irene if they wanted them. 

 

“No, sweet,” shrugging. “It’s nothing I’ve considered, once it was something I knew would be expected, required at some point, a sort of fact of life, a distant one, an eventuality, not to be questioned or really worth much thought, but...” Water eddied as he gestured to his lower half, “An erection is one thing, it’s equal parts mental, and my body responding to stimuli, even if my brain doesn’t register it properly. Ejaculation’s still the required method for obtaining semen, and -” candidly, apologetically, “I don’t remember the last time that happened. Bloody hell, it could’ve been in the locker room right before the ‘meet to get over nerves, or the morning I woke up before seeking out a car for a dance partner, love.”

 

Not a thought before, but when Irene kissed him like that, the glide of lips on his forehead, his eyelids, down each side of his nose, his cheeks, corners of his eyes, a meandering, haphazard path, the sweetness of it was so overpowering that a part of him wished he could give that to her if it was what she wanted of him. Gathering her back in after he was half dizzy from the tenderness of her hands on his face, in his hair during those kisses, turning her around to sit forward on his knees, and collected his frayed thoughts, focusing on something easy. Something concrete. Unpinning her hair, shampoo grabbed, they were both silent, save for a few of her contented almost moans. 

 

Clearing his throat, “You were saying people were lonely and that some seek to do something about it instead of laze about the way those fancy, easily broken models do. No doubt you were about to impart something horrifically insightful, and that if the world would just quit being rude and dreadful and listen to you, it would be a much better place, my darling.”

 

That earned him a soft huffing laugh that trailed off into a pleased purr, his fingers massaging deep in the mass of sodden, sudsy blonde locks, “I was getting at the fact that of course Jerome didn’t connect much to others, in spite of his own loneliness. It’s almost like he wasn’t aware of it, like he couldn’t be aware of it, because it would’ve been a distraction, don’t you think? Think about it,” leaning forward so she could rest her folded arms on the other side of the very deep, but not very long bath, “if his only goal was to take every step required to get him to space, no matter what it called for...where would he have time for friends? Real friends? Ties? Bonds? They’d be a risk to share details of what he was willing to do to get to space, they could’ve turned on him. Or they could’ve slipped and outed him accidentally. Friends, family, they take time, energy, they need to be invested in. He only had so much time and energy to use, and he wasn’t going to use it on anything that could slow him down, hinder him, foil him.”

 

Eugene considered what she said, agreeing, but adding, “Love, he was lonely, lonely like you wouldn’t believe, and pathetic with it, worse than I was, when I met him, and I was a broken down drunk beyond anything you’ve ever seen me be, yet he was still kind in spite of it. He knew what it was, but turned off any acknowledging it as a waste of his resources. Then there’s myself, an overachiever by design, and failure by results, I just wanted to die in style and in the manner I chose, by drinking until I forgot, spending money on company that I knew exactly how long I could count on - until the prepaid time was up - until finally going out from a wrecked liver like a proper dispossessed gentleman pretending to be human wreckage should.  
Brightly, “Like Errol Flynn now that I think about it.” Grimacing, “I needed a connection, a friend, certainly, but knew those things were all just lies for someone like me, even if they were perfectly real and possible for who I had been prior to failure. So I had those things at some point, I don’t think he ever did.” Hands cupping so he could rinse her hair, slowly, taking his time, not using the faster method of the nearby cup that was there for just that purpose, “What little he said about his childhood, his mother all but swaddled him in bubble wrap, so protective that other than books and a younger, Valid brother who terrorized him mercilessly whenever he could get away with it...” It was a wonder Vincent could feel anything, connect to anyone. And yet he was kind, saw the person beneath the DNA. “Never mentioned his father, but rather quite familiar with that sort of omission - complete and total rejection from daddy for being a genetic disappointment. The only pleasantness was his mother, and there’s Greek tragedies about that sort of thing.” 

 

“Oh, Eugene, by rights, he should have an oedipal and whore-madonna set of complexes that could be used as case studies, or a serial killer, or some other....type of...awful person,” vexed. “But he became close to you, he connected to you, fell in love with you -”

 

“Irene -”

 

“No, I know you want to pretend that that isn’t how it is, that it’s not the same as yours for him,” voice low, the weight of it was enough to silence him without her raising her voice. “You grounded him, you gave him hope, you gave him access to the route to actually attain the one thing he set out to do with his life against the odds, you gave him everything he wanted, and all the things he needed more than just his necessities. Reaching his goal needed samples, bits and pieces of your body, but everything else...was a gift from you.” Sharply drawn breath, burying her face in her forearms, “When he returns, it’s because there’s a reason to, he knows there’s a reason to. A home to come to, people to come back to, connections to share. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t see that look in your eye, lookin’ for exits, ways to give up, to flee.”

 

Rocking back in the seat, heaving a sigh, Eugene scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes closed. “I already promised you I’d tell him, that I’d be there, that I won’t make any stupid attempts - I mean, honestly, I’ve tried enough times, failed all those times, so what’s the purpose in another attempt? It only brings home the point, and the thought of me giving up the ghost hurts you, so... I quit,” actively, “seeking any kind of way to shuffle off the mortal coil. Don’t ask me to pretend I’m happy or something with my broken flesh, bloody hell, half the time I don’t even know how you can stand to look at me, yet I’m beyond thankful that you do, that you are here, that you let me love you as much as I do, that you return any of that to me...”

 

Irene dipped herself into the water briefly, still not looking at him once she surfaced, “But.”

 

Glancing at her, brow furrowed, “Pardon?” 

 

“There’s a ‘but’.” Filling in what she read between lines, “But if you see a chance, you’ll embrace it with open arms, no matter who it hurts,” slowly turning in the tub to face him, crouching down so her face was only just above water. “But no matter how good your life is, you’ll leave it without any thought if you see a nice exit, you won’t fight, you’ll just give right up with a smile, that’s it, isn’t it.”

 

Not a question.

 

“He had years, Irene, and he made his choice that whatever feelings he has for me, I’m not worth it,” throat tight, voice hoarse. “You had desperation and fear to make it alright to settle for me. I had horror and guilt that I had driven you to that, to buy time to see that there’s still things worth staying for, but in the end, the fact is, that I’ll become what I always have - a burden, an obstacle. I’ll enjoy and savour every moment, my darling, but when it’s over, it’s over, and I’d rather not prolong the suffering.” Carefully shifting in the tub so he was closer, so he could hold her, so he could feel her skin against his, brushing his thumb over her chin, “You are worth staying for...Vincent is worth staying for, you both are, but you’ll both be better off eventually without me, without my presence interfering in whatever life you both choose to make together.”

 

Fierceness flared in the depths of her eyes, her lips firmed, and he half expected a smack - a deserved one, certainly. “Fine.”

 

Eugene was well aware of what that word was. “Irene...”

 

“I said fine, you’ll have it your way,” decisive, brisk, her arms winding around his chest, her legs shifting up in the deep water to go around his waist, and he had to wriggle back so he had the surety of a seat to hold them both up under his arse or he’d need to worry about them sinking under the water. Not that the tub couldn’t be easily drained, he just wasn’t certain what was going on - once again. ‘Fine’ was always a bad word to hear, and ‘have it your way’ he had learned over the years, thankfully not as a receiver for the most part, that that was a phrase that boded hellfire and damnation for anyone it was directed at. 

 

“Irene -”

 

“You’ll be present until Vincent and I are certain what sort of life we’ll have, and if he’s a tenth of the man I remember looking at you as though you were the air he breathed, then he’ll agree with me on what sort of life that’ll be.” Leaning in tight and close, tongue coming to lick over the shell of his ear, “You just let us handle the decisions in that, since you’re so certain you’ll interfere in them. Whenever we come to this or that agreement, we’ll just tell you, and you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

 

“Wh-” cut off and biting his bottom lip when the tracing of her tongue became firmer, slipping into the shell, ticklish and erotic in one and damn her for having found that spot, a thousand years ago it felt like. 

 

The moist sound sent a shiver down his spine, a soft pop when she sucked then released his earlobe, “There’s time, Eugene, and it’ll be awhile before everyone’s settled, until then, it’s joint decisions on major things. You won’t have to worry so much over those things for much longer, Eugene.”

 

“Somehow that’s not very -” hissing as she began stroking, massaging, and intermittently scratching another of those magical places she had found on him, Eugene shook his head. “ _Not fair, darling._ You are wicked, have I told you that recently? You’re supposed to be making sad faces and - ah!” The laugh was pleased, low, and that made it more difficult to think than it should. “Weren’t we supposed to be doing the ‘not arguing’ thing...? You customarily wield,” trying to wriggle free, rather unsuccessfully of course, “your feelings and - here now!”

 

Irene leaned away finally, still upset at the edges, but hers was the patience of stone, a rolling boulder when in motion, squashing and smashing whatever was in her way, otherwise, firmly planted in one spot that nobody could budge. “If in the last ten months I haven’t gotten you to fully accept reason one way,” move in, breathing over his lips, “then let’s try another. Besides, you could use the endorphins, you’re doing that aggravating maudlin thing where you sound as reasonable as Hamlet discussing his grievances and intents, no matter how detrimental they really are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One, maybe two more chapters, and this one'll be done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long assed chapter. Also, mushy in places. And oh hey, finally, Vincent-Jerome. I probably need to go back to prior chapters to make sure that Irene tends to stick to calling him Jerome, while Eugene calls him Vincent. Figure that beyond out in public, that that's how they do things anyway.

Jerome, the name was familiar, well worn, like the contents of the single allotted suitcase he had brought with him on the shuttle. Worn to the point of perfect fit, a little comfortable scuffing here and there, once harsh, crisp lines and seams loosening up, breaking down, like the rounded edges of his contacts’ case. Anton was the last to call him Vincent, light years away, a dozen months ago. He had still thought of himself as Vincent then, deep down inside, bits and pieces of nerdy, goofy, gawky, and content with being all the above, hell, he still remembered how his shoulders and body swayed when Anton cornered him and confronted him. How easily Vincent’s carefree and triumphant smile had twisted his mouth. Jerome missed those fragments, but while the constant testing hadn’t been required once in space, it had still been necessary to maintain the charade, because the crew, the scientists, the others on the shuttle, their lives depended on being able to trust him. It was a fragile thing, far more difficult to upkeep in such close quarters for so long. Unlike at Gattaca, he couldn’t seek refuge in being aloof and separate. In space, he wasn’t the captain, whose will and word had to function as law, but he still had to be part of the group somehow, dependable, present, accessible. At least to officers.

 

There had been no more real room for strictly pieces of Vincent to remain. Anything he couldn’t incorporate, had to be let go. The thing that should be frightening, was just how easy that had been. But Jerome had had years to break in the name, to wear it, to become it, until those last tatters of Vincent rubbed off like a bit of designer name from the soft sole insert in a pair of favourite shoes. 

 

Jerome had drilled himself in perfection for so long, in being above reproach for so long, that even far away from the halls of Gattaca, where constant oversight had demanded hyper vigilance and excellence, while in space, far away, many of the others let themselves relax...he couldn’t. It was habit. It was ingrained. It was breathing. It was being able to clean and put in his contacts in the dark, and at bedtime, take them out and clean them again, put them away, hiding eye colour and (in)Valid disability. It was obsessively shaving and scrubbing in the luxury of a private sonic shower in his cubby sized officers’ quarters. It was coming up with a story about his darker hair as the roots grew out, exposing the golden hair they’d been familiar with as false and the fact that he had to admit that yes, he dyed it, but only to maintain the same level of blond it had been from puberty up until the last year or three. It was carefully checking the drain traps in his sink and his sonic shower, bagging anything sucked up by the standard hoover all on the shuttle were issued, so as to keep loose particulate from flying about and possibly igniting...and finding a time to dispose of the DNA evidence of Vincent Freeman on the off chance anyone may run a check at some point. Jerome was a man of steady, repeating habits, wit, light cynicism, and studious aplomb, yet fast thinking and able to react to any change in situation. 

 

Jerome didn’t sleep much. Then again, he hadn’t for years, other than weekends. There were no weekends in space, not really. A private room with a locking door was merely a courtesy, nothing more. But it was one that Jerome needed, no matter that he dare not trust its ability to create a real separation between himself and the man the others all saw. But when Jerome _did_ sleep, those four, five, or the rare, beautiful six hours, in a twenty-four hour period...he dreamed of Earth. He didn’t dream of space. He didn’t dream of Titan and its dense fog. He didn’t have dreams of willfully risking himself to go down with one of the first teams to explore the way he had once longed to do, to answer and to see in person on his own. (The one time, awake, and in officers’ mess, when he mentioned he had toyed with the idea, even in passing, of going down, the other officers had stared at him absolutely horrified. There was only one other dedicated navigator, and he wasn’t anywhere near so good. Their Captain Amori was far better, and she didn’t want the job unless there was no other choice. That meant there were three trained navigators total on the ship, and probably a few others who could be taught in a pinch - which Jerome had offered to do at around three months after leaving Earth’s atmosphere. Captain Amori said if she thought he was even considering risking himself for a bit of thrill seeking, she would order him fastened to his chair, and not released without a guard on him even to take a leak. Harsh, but understandable. And Jerome had shrugged, smiled, and said it was only a thought from his youth, that he was perfectly content to remain on board - so long as he was allowed second dibs on all the witness accounts and data collected. An unnecessary request, but Amori had looked relieved that their main navigator could be easily protected and bought off like that.) So, banned from exploring while awake, Jerome, Vincent, _both_ would figure the logical step would be to daydream about Titan’s surface, to be a great explorer while under the care of the sleep gods Morpheus (shape), Phobetor (fear), and Phantasos (fantasy.)

 

He dreamed of the scent of fresh cracked black peppercorns, because when fresh, they were a spicy sweet smell, sandalwood, allspice...amber. He dreamed of the scent of cologne, expensive cologne, one he used to spray once on himself, and once on his suit coat before going to work each morning. It’s not a cologne he ever would have chosen for himself, wouldn’t have known the first thing about buying the stuff, wearing it, anything... On Jerome it smelled different than it had on Eugene. They could use the same products, dress the same, have the same handwriting, have the same hair and eye colour...but they weren’t the same. And on Jerome, that cologne had a sharper, crisper undertone, the oils and bacteria in his skin, custom tailored by time, life, DNA, even the kinds of dirt he had been exposed to as a child, brought that change to the cologne. On Eugene though... It was warm, mellow, _soothing._ Jerome dreamed of that, and when he’d wake, face rubbing into the too tightly clutched pillow, it would be to the expectation of catching a hint of it on the fabric, and instead, finding only over washed cotton and polyester. 

 

Jerome dreamed about feminine humming, a bit of singing, the words indistinct, originating in another room, wafting from an open door, filtered under the cascade of a real shower. Smooth hip and backside tucked up just below his. He dreamed of withdrawn poise and ramrod straight spine, relaxing to reveal hints of laughter that didn’t make a sound, but would hitch shoulders just so, or a hand would lazily wave as though to distract from the now warm and lively being filled with the light of life. He dreamed small things of a woman known for years, and not known at all until the last minute. 

 

There were dreams of green eyes fixed on him, staring, curious, half-entranced, as he did something so simple as blow a bit of smoke into a wineglass. There were dreams based in that memory, mixing other ones, cobbling things together. Impossible stuff, but they were dreams, they were allowed to be strange, unlikely things, like kissing the inside of a strong wrist, fingers weaving together before falling asleep. Jerome dreamed of _sleeping_ , of resting, of small nuances, comforting weight, as though it were familiar and real, based in truth. Of being able to roll over and lay his ear over sternum, or press it to the space between shoulder blades, and listen...listen to steadily beating heart. The recording, the antennae, risky as it was to bring it on the mission, Jerome had brought that in his personal belongings. Nights when sleep wouldn’t come, that was all that could help him find the elusive REM, and those nights the dreams weren’t quite so intimately innocent. Those nights, with a recording of a heart beating in his ears, filling his head, there was a pulse of movement and scattered sensation, images blurry as though his dream self couldn’t consider daring contacts or glasses or perfect vision to the dream. 

 

Blue eyes other nights, sometimes in the same night, he dreamed of them in clear, perfect vision. Maybe because he had seen her that way once, the last time, in his space in the condo’s upstairs. The first time had been blurry, contacts ditched, and glasses left at home thanks to Eugene’s timely reminder that Valids didn’t wear glasses, not out with coworkers or out on a date. (Why had Vincent lied to Eugene? A year, and that was still something he was ashamed he had done, even though the other man no doubt had forgotten it, and hadn’t cared either.) He would wake with the taste of soft musk and salty, satisfied arousal stuck on his tongue, remember the last time, how much more thorough he’d been then, how there had been no driving urgency as there had been the evening he had gone back to her house. But he would wake up more, tongue pushing around in his mouth, a sleepy smacking of lips, and no, there was nothing so memorable and pleasing as the taste of Irene in his mouth...just sleep and the body’s reminder that mouths were filthy and needed frequent brushing.

 

Earth. Jerome dreamed of Earth. Of a small blue and brown ball of mud, filled with a few billion people, and too much nastiness. Too much small, petty nonsense. That was Earth to Vincent...sometimes. Sometimes it was Earth to Jerome, too. Except for two people, the only reason he really felt like going back... He was so many tens of thousands of heartbeats overdue, and yet his heart continued, same as it always had, even if it protested if he pushed it too hard. He hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t told even Eugene who admitted his own backbreaking attempt at leaving life on his own terms, that considering his age now, how far overdue he was for dropping over, and no real reason to want to live on Earth ever again - he had planned on finding an airlock, or going down to Titan, or if feeling altruistic, waiting until he got the ship back near Earth’s orbit, before finding a safety hatch, or taking the pair of cyanide pills he had smuggled on board as a failsafe. He had forgotten those, but when he had first gone to his assigned quarters about 364 Earth solar days ago, he remembered that plan. Those thoughts, those plans didn’t hold any merit anymore. He wanted to be back on Earth, and to see how many more heart beats he could milk from the body that was supposed to set him up for nothing but failure. However much time that would be, it would have to be with the people that made Earth a place he could call home, rather than point of origin.

 

Around him, others were stern but excited, whispers of what they planned to do when landing, were background noise. Jerome instead focused on his job. Reentry was preprogrammed, customarily at least, originally at least. But as strong as the Gattaca ship was, as well prepared, designed, and maintained, a year was a very long time to be away from dry-dock, a bevy of supplies and mechanics. And, more importantly, there were the damages from returning probes gone haywire, asteroids, or the initial landing crew coming back all dead or dying in the sub-pod and crashing along the sides of the ship while seeking to regain admittance, no matter what they had prepared for. Not important, not to Jerome, though interesting to Vincent, it was a tragedy for someone else, a loss felt by the crew, but bore no impact on the one thing that _Vincent_ could contribute to the mission that nobody else could... The last month of the mission, too many of the automatic nav controls had gone down, finally giving up the ghost, leaving it to the knowledge in Jerome’s head to get everyone home safely. Pulling out the wrist watch with a beaten face emblazoned with the image of an astronaut on the moon, Jerome waited, barely breathing, counting, attention split between his console, the Earth, Sol, and the watch. He ignored Gattaca’s direction that was telling him to begin reentry circuit too early, and Amori shot him a glance, and he waved a hand, curt, focus too vital to waste telling her why he was ignoring homebase’s instruction. He heard her telling them to be quiet, they had matters under control...and fully disengaged all auto protocols as he had warned her that morning they may have to do. Didn’t want the programs fighting his manual directions obviously. 

 

As the sun’s initial rays struck the right place on the planet below, the hands of his watch lined up where he needed them to, and he guided the ship to begin. Reentry was faster, shakier, and slower, all at the same time than leaving Earth had been. Or maybe that was a year’s distance making the memory foggy. Jerome’s hands were full, and there was nothing beyond his task...until finally, bumps, violent, head banging, awful, brutal landing in the crash net that was on the outskirts of Gattaca. A year of low gravity when they had it, and frequent generator outages meant they often were stuck with no gravity at all, and the weight of the world felt awful and crushing, and the landing was like being born, fully adult, into the world. 

 

Everyone had left the bridge save for Captain Amori and himself. The Valid woman was waiting, safety belts unfastened, but still in her chair, watching him, when he finally was able to shake the cobwebs from his thoughts. When he looked at her, he thought he should feel triumphant, he had done what no one thought a particularly bad set of genes like his could do, all while fooling the most elite of genetic specimens. Instead, he felt tired. Sore.

 

“Everyone has almost cleared out of the shuttle, except for a few in Engineering, Hanson,” her favorite strongarm to remind anyone what the rules were during the rare times it was necessary, “who I ordered to bring up our kits to the bridge.” 

 

Blinking at her, knowing that there should be some worry, some fear, but there was none, Jerome wasn’t Vincent, and didn’t feel fear like that anymore, didn’t feel triumph like that, he felt, mostly, calm, “And ourselves, of course, Captain.”

 

“And ourselves,” she agreed, rising from her chair, nudging with her leg the black leather suitcase Eugene had loaned-given-shared with him a year ago, sliding it towards him. He began to unfasten himself while she continued to scrutinize him, her expression wholly, totally unreadable. But she was a Valid, they liked being that way. Finally, once he was free, once he began to half stand, needing to brace a hand on his console, head ducking, she moved, hand holding something oblong and battered brown in her hand so he could see it, “I assume these are a souvenir from a friend, a good luck charm from a lover, a memento of a dead relative.”

 

Straightening slowly instead of abruptly, he accepted the hardened case, the weight belonged to Vincent, and he hadn’t worn them even once in the last year. He didn’t need to open it, to crack the lid, but he did, Jerome would at least make a cursory inspection, “Someone I used to know, Captain.”

 

“Careful with that kind of personal effect, Morrow, it took a lot of damage control to keep the rumour mill down about you maybe being an (in)Valid, these things,” hitched shoulder, “grow with every new telling, and a crew with cabin fever and no new stimuli, gossip just as bad as the sailors of yore. I would’ve almost been tempted to believe it myself, if I hadn’t remembered just who our only proper navigator was. No (in)Valid could do that, could they, Morrow?”

 

Picking up his suitcase, stuffing the glasses case into one of the pockets, “That’s what they say, Captain Amori.”

 

A flash of a rare smile while on the bridge, whether they were alone or not, “Gattaca only selects the best. You have been...a more valid crew member than any other I have worked with directly in any mission I have undertaken.” 

 

Valid. Not with a capital V, but valid. They left the bridge once she was commed, saying that all others had left the ship. After a few more minutes of staring at one another, of course, weighing, though what Amori was thinking, he couldn’t say, and for himself, there was nothing in his head that he could pin down, Amori following, her own bag over her shoulder, an ancient military issue rucksack of green canvas. She would be the last to leave, and she had been the first on board, a captain’s duty and privilege to be first on and last off. He had been the last to load up, Lamar’s expression as he sent him off, clearing his way through the final test, had all but announced he was the very last one to board. It felt appropriate that if he couldn’t be the absolute last one to disembark, second to last was just fine. And that was Vincent’s influence on him, on the Jerome that blended two people into something new, not the birth Jerome, for Jerome Morrow only accepted the last say, the highest rank, the gold, never, ever the silver.

 

Just before taking the ramp, “Captain, it has been a pleasure serving under your command, and I don’t regret a moment of it other than the personnel who were hurt or lost during the mission. I’m sorry for that, but nothing else.” None that worth mentioning, those regrets were private, small, personal, and had no bearing on the conversation.

 

Amori halted beside him, casting a glance his way, “The first feet to walk the moon were men, with only the benefits of centuries of chancy breeding, and the will to learn many kinds of skills, to lead up to them taking the first steps of humankind on an alien celestial body. Brave or insane, they did it, imperfect, flawed men, achieving the impossible, a dream of the place beyond the world they knew. I try to remember that every time I leave Earth atmo, Jerome, to tell myself that if they could do it, that my small moments of fear are easier to overcome because my geneticist designed me to be graced with the best raw and refined materials my parents contributed, giving me the tools that I only have to use. That reminds me to not be outdone by some long dead, unsequenced men, but as soon as the fear’s gone, I remember that if it weren’t for the ones going first, that I wouldn’t have the chance to duplicate and surpass that achievement. It’s always the first who prove something impossible is possible, who truly deserve the credit for what follows after. But to get to that first success, there’s loss, sacrifice of one kind or another, to build a ladder for the first success to climb. To achieve, you have to dream, to sacrifice, to climb...” 

 

Jerome listened, watching her, and like Lamar, she knew he was technically an imposter. Technically. Genetically, he was an imposter. Skills? Ability? He’d proved that with the landing, with a year in space, with years preparing for the mission while in Gattaca's headquarters, that Jerome Morrow wasn’t an imposter, no matter the circumstances of his birth and the quality of his helix.

 

Offering, “Space was a dream since I can remember seeing stars, the moon. Titan was the dream that’s carried me every step of the way. To have actually achieved that when there were many other paths open to me,” mid sentence, Jerome switched which hand his lone piece of luggage was in so he could hold onto the nearest railing for support, “whatever my odds of getting there, I still did, and I don’t care who was first, or who follows, Captain, I did it for myself, because I needed to.”

 

Amori’s comfortably worn boots tapped on the ramp, moving to take the lead in spite of tradition, protocol, and established law in some cases, “Funny, that’s almost exactly what my grandmother said when I asked about her being the first one on Mars, she told everybody else it was for mankind, for science... And I think the other firsts felt the same, whether they admitted it to anyone or not.” Stopping halfway down, she looked over her shoulder at him, “It’s time to go home, Jerome, your old dream’s run its course, rest awhile before you try to build another. One’s more than most ever get, and usually never get close enough to reaching - you managed to have your cake and eat it too. Right now, it’s time to rejoin the human race, ragtag and strange as we are.” 

 

Taking a deep breath, Jerome looked around the unassuming exit, at the ramp, at the space above that had been open sky before the underground silo roof slid closed over the landing net. This moment was the last, and for all he knew, once down the ramp, and into the underground warrens linking the landing area to the rest of Gattaca, he would no longer be free, be respected, be Jerome to the world. A year was a long time, someone could have discovered his subterfuge. But he had succeeded. He had dreamed his dream, lived it, and returned victorious. And yet...as he looked around at what he had done so much to achieve, he found it no longer important. It was an old dream, one that stood him in good stead for a long, long time. Perhaps it was the reaching, the working to climb to the top, to achieve what was supposed to be impossible - at least for him - that had been the worthwhile part. Or maybe it was what he encountered on the way to private glory that was the hidden, unlooked for reward, a fulfillment that the dream itself couldn’t provide.

 

Releasing that held breath, his shoes clomped down steadily, and before him, Amori resumed her own march. Chuckling, “If you ask me, dreaming’s real hard work, Captain. I think one and done’s plenty for awhile.”

 

Sadly, while there was no apparent intent to oust him, punish him, expose him, in some way once the medbay of Gattaca came into view after fully wending their way along the path hazmat and white garbed Gattaca personnel pointed them to - he wasn’t free to leave his dream behind quite yet. There were exams, and Lamar was there, waiting for him in a far more private cordoned off area that had been reserved for officers and leads, if the leaving lines he saw elsewhere and the crew heading away in typically Valid orderliness were a fair measure of what was called for this time to meet Gattaca standards. Lamar’s head was missing a few more hairs, but he was still that calm, measured, and very dry humoured doctor as he pulled the privacy curtain over the cubicle entrance. It was just them. A man who had allowed him to pass on through when he was supposed to be the last line of defense against inferior humans daring to trespass in the realms reserved for only humanity’s most evolved. And a man that was Jerome, but sometimes, even with the clear lines faded away to obscurity, could be a bit more...Vincent - if someone squinted their eyes to see that guy. 

 

A crooked smile, “So tell me, did you finally feel nervous? I forgot to ask before you left.”

 

Huffing a quiet chuckle, familiar, homey, feeling instantly more human, less worried about who he was, Jerome began to take off his shirt, getting ready for his checkup, “There was a moment or two where I felt a bit anxious. But that cleared up quickly with the help of a better friend than I ever thought I had. Owe that man a drink, I think, he was a life saver, that’s for damn sure. Except I’m kinda beat, so I can’t deliver on that as soon as I should. Think he’d mind waitin’ another week, since he’s waited a year like the saint he is?”

 

Businesslike as usual, thorough, actually checking him, running the tests, just to get the real, true printout, before overriding what was recorded on file with the old data stored. “What’s a fifty-third week to collect on that? Besides, what’re friends for, Jerome?” Tightly folding up the printout of Jerome’s real physical health, it was stuffed in the deep pocket of his lab coat, “Looks like I got some private reading to do later, see whatever jumps out at me and I’ll decide if anything needs to be done about it, but otherwise, you’re all clear, Jerome. There’s a welcome back party, with a monologue by the Director Lodhi - that’s right, you didn’t hear who replaced the old Director after the murder, but Director Lodhi’s a little less...”

 

“Stiffnecked and overweening? Superior?” Jerome grinned, neatening himself back up. “For such an unassuming guy, he sure moved around like he thought he was a god of science. Wonder if he walked like a steel beam replaced his spine because he forgot that the humans he was impersonating weren’t robots and could actually bend, or because it was the only way he could maneuver that belly of his around with some sort of dignity?”

 

Curtain rings making a ‘shink’ as the material was pulled aside, “You’re too generous, here I’m just wondering if he could even bend.” Exam gloves snapped off and thrown away, the doctor ushered him along, “And how he managed to get cleaned up, or, sorry, you remember the occupational hazards of my job - how he could reach his member, let alone when he last saw it without a few mirrors. When you’re the face of the advancement of the human race, according to all the news, and only want those farthest along on the evolutionary staircase...maybe ‘rotund’ isn’t a good look.”

 

“Eh, it doesn’t inspire confidence in the masses, I guess, but I think murder and a neon prison jumpsuit are probably a lot less inspirational than a stick up the ass, an affection for fine dining, and a messiah complex, combined,” Jerome shot off. At the entrance to what was obviously the gathering of returning crew, “Between you and me, Lamar, I spent a year in a tin can with almost everyone in there. We’re all sick of one another by this point, I know I certainly don’t see anyone in there I’d want to sit through the Director, new or not, reciting a monologue to Gattaca’s greatness, and how we’ve made them even more great than they already were...”

 

“Don’t blame you, Jerome, I’d want to bail, too,” agreeing. “But if you want a job after your mandatory convalescence and observation leave - you’ll find a corner spot out of the way, while staying in view of sticklers. Hate to be the bearer of that bad news, just the way it is. Would be a shame to be stuck with an endless parade of the boring, same old same olds, oh, like I’ve been dealing with the whole time you’ve been gone. No sense of humour, hell, they’re starting to all look the same sometimes. You’ll leave me stuck with monotony if you don’t come back to work eventually, Jerome.” Hand patting the white coat pocket, where the real readout of Jerome’s health down to the molecules as they stood today, “The health plan’s better than the competition’s, with a provider you can trust at that. And I hear some looney put a foosball table in the med break room, new coffee maker, too...all very much hush-hush, it’s against policy, hope they catch the delinquents that snuck it in... Just so long as it’s after a Friday night match of medics against engineers.”

 

Jerome impulsively turned to the older man, and hugged him quickly, before releasing him, grasping and patting his upper arms, chuckling, but remembering to keep it quiet enough that it didn’t carry into the welcome committee's meeting, “Lamar, you’re priceless, man. Missed you more than I realized, ‘cuz I can’t remember the last time I laughed this many times in a row in the last twelve months. Tough crowd, something lost in translation, because their jokes weren’t all that funny, and they thought all mine were duds. No accounting for taste I guess, mine or theirs, ‘cuz that steady diet of constant sarcasm was giving me an ulcer.” Giving him another hug, “It really is good to see you, hope you and your family been real good. And I got a few pictures of the mission for your son if he hasn’t lost interest in space.”

 

Lamar squeezed him too, the demonstrative display uncommon in the vaunted, controlled, regal halls of Gattaca, but they weren’t in the center of a group of people, or even in the meeting room either. Just outside the door - glass door, yeah, but everybody behind it was busy pretending to hang on Director Lodhi’s every word. “Get in there, tough it out, and I’ll meet you out front, drop you off home, none of you are cleared to drive yourselves home the first day back. Miss Cassini already asked earlier if I would, said I’d be happy to, and on the way to dropping you off since my wife Laura’s swinging by after picking our son Evan up from school to meet his hero, maybe you can tell him about your vacation on the way to your place. Or ruffling his hair and you and I’ll just let Laura drive him home, but ah...I’m a weak man, and I promised Evan he could at least see you once you landed.”

 

“Evan,” savouring the name, and letting the doctor go, able to remember when he too had been a little boy in love with the universe beyond his own tiny life. “Let’s see if the monologue leaves me catatonic or not. Even then, I could probably talk a captive audience’s ears off about space, always been that way.”

 

A raised hand to say bye for the moment, and Jerome entered unobtrusively the welcome meeting. It wasn’t quite as dull as Lamar warned, or Jerome remembered the old Director’s scientific sermons being, but the cement benches hadn’t improved in the year he was gone. The pressure and drag of Earth gravity didn’t help with the comfort level either, but Jerome clapped when others did, murmured agreeably when the others did, basically did what they all did, following their lead reflexively, while focusing his concentration on actually maintaining his customary air of comfortable relaxation and assurance. Hard when his joints were starting to swell with reaction, when his body began to issue information to his brain that well, it hadn’t liked all the jostling, hadn’t liked the rapid change in gravity, and lodged a gurgling complaint that he hoped no one heard, that he hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning, and definitely hadn’t eaten much of dinner. (He’d been too busy checking over navigational systems, and hearing back from Engineering on the condition of their systems, the shuttle, everything. Not a lot of time or energy to think about food. And now his stomach was letting out a few warbling gurgles of the song of its people.) 

 

Amori had scanned the crowd when she was called to the podium, gaze landing on him as though she intended to call on him to join her and look like a special snowflake shoulder buddy, but changed her mind when he gave a slight shake of his head. He wasn’t up for public speaking, hadn’t ever thought so far ahead, didn’t see any reason why he should be expected to go up there anyway. To them, he hadn’t done anything impossible, only to those who knew his origins, had what he done been unattainable, insurmountable. To the others in the room, it was merely difficult, but possible. But Amori specifically praised him, likening his navigational guidance to the Polynesian and Viking mariners that had used the knowledge of the skies, and the simplest of tools to traverse the vastness, which was a tad over the top, but it garnered the initially polite clapping until Glen from Engineering let loose a sharp whistle, excited. Then things got loud for a moment, until Amori exercised a year’s worth of being most present’s captain over them. Something about the old astronauts, probably very interesting, very flattering, but Jerome’s temples had started to throb, and he just wanted home. That was his world, his dream, his driving force suddenly, and he hoped it could carry him long enough to actually _get_ there, no matter how impossible it made it for him to focus on what was going on around him. 

 

Amori leaned into the mic, and it was quiet again, other than the elephant band inside Jerome’s skull, but it was a lull he hoped would last awhile, “Space has been the dream of many, my dream, your dreams, and the dream of our ancestors. We’ve been afforded the opportunity to continue in the steps of those who reached the stars first, to go beyond them, and for future generations to go beyond us. My grandmother Itsumi Amori was the first human to set foot on Mars, and she told everybody that it was for those who would come after that she did it, but she told me when I was thirteen and said I wished to follow in her footsteps, that she actually did it for herself. And I’ve come to believe that it was the same for anyone else who took first steps, too, that it was for the sake of their own dreams that they did it. Selflessness is good, but sometimes an impossible dream is better. I’ll leave you a last bit of her imperfect wisdom - take your own steps to reach those dreams, no one else can do it for you.”

 

That was it, everyone was standing, everyone was clapping, a few exuberant, cabin fever suffering individuals, and so, eager and out of character with excitement, and incautious physical displays in a place that decorum was expected, hugged, jumped up and down, turned to a neighbour, repeating the process... Jerome managed to avoid that, narrowly, scooting along the wall, whilst clapping, just no jumping, no hugging, no hollering. It was almost like a stadium game when home team scored. Except a smaller group of people, better dressed, and indoors. As everybody settled down, milling about, Jerome found himself stopped here and there for a word, and he managed some polite chitchat, same as always, perfect Jerome. Vincent would’ve found a way to bashfully bow out, polite and gawky and maybe spouting a joke here or there, anything to get free of the crowd and towards home. 

 

Captain Amori was there near the doors on the opposite side of the room, and Director Lodhi, too, his route of gracefully exiting somewhat blocked, since the other side led to the wrong half of the complex. Disappointed, his aggravated sigh was repressed, Jerome schmoozed a little more, an eye to the door, before the soreness of his body sent another unpleasant twinge through him...quickly followed by noisy stomach gurgles, which the couple of crew members he was making nice with, heard since the conversations of those milling around the room were softer than a long speech with speakers backing it up. They chuckled, he shrugged and said he’d missed breakfast, and dinner hadn’t been tempting enough to pry him from confabing with Engineering... That got him a few sympathetic noises from them, and a perky brunette fluttering eyelashes and offering to help him on home, where she could get him fed better. He laughed, saying no thanks, that he had someone waiting at home for him that probably had remembered that the last Thanksgiving on Earth had seen him eat an entire pot roast on his own, and that he didn’t want to eat her out of house and home. Door, exit, single-minded, and Director Lodhi was about to signal him to stop, to talk, to do whatever it was that inspired employees to work harder, make them feel special. (Jerome hadn’t ever felt a desire for that, not from anyone he wasn’t close to. He knew what he could do, he did it, and that was sufficient in general.) Amori saved him, didn’t know why she had spared revealing his secret, why she had accepted him as is, now that they weren’t on a ship where lives could possibly depend on his ability to navigate better than anyone else. She was free now to destroy him -

 

And that. That was Jerome, or what Jerome was _supposed_ to be according to societal expectations, and he highly doubted Eugene had ever really, truly been. That was the elitist Valid. That thought process. How easy and seductive it was to fall into it, looking for traps, plotting ways to get ahead... That’s not how he got where he was in Gattaca since being hired, that’s not how he was on the ship, and he squashed the paranoia, forgiving it as exertion, fatigue, and the headache. Amori informed Director Lodhi, even as she shoulder and hip bumped the double doors open for Jerome to pass through, that he had pushed himself for days to be certain the ship would be capable of safe return in spite of multiple system malfunctions and failures, that he he had forgone bodily necessity, and no matter how wonderful whatever the Director wished to say, Jerome couldn’t be asked to give anything more for the moment. No milk from a stone, and he was tapped out. Lodhi nodded agreement, and that was all the pause and patience that Jerome could muster for politeness’ sake, so he took that nod of dismissal as his signal to beat a full retreat.

 

Lamar’s kid, Evan, would be disappointed that his hero wasn’t able to give much attention to him. When Jerome landed, he had thought he had more energy reserved, more awareness, but all of what Amori said was true, everything Jerome had casually mentioned to excuse himself and apologize for being a poor participant in the welcome back mingling, was all true... He was running on fumes, and those would only last so long. There was a saying the Greeks had, that when the gods were bored or wished to punish man, they would grant man’s wishes, so that they would find out the terrible price getting what one wanted could extract. Normally, Jerome took that to mean that success would taste of ashes in many cases, but today it tasted of something gross on the back of his tongue, and a lovely dose of migraine, with a hearty dish of every bone throbbing in his body. 

 

In short order, with head pressed against the leather headrest of Lamar’s car, he cast Evan an apologetic smile in the backseat, “I think I must be gettin’ long in the tooth for space travels, because I feel like an old man.” Waggling a finger at Evan, a hint of playful admonishment, “That’s something they don’t warn you about in space school, that you’ll want a hot chocolate and a nap once you’ve got your brains to stop rattling after landing!”

 

XXX

 

“Bloody hell, I’m not wearing a tux, darling!” doing his best to turn and wheel away faster than Irene could try and hold up the damn thing. Probably didn’t even fit anymore. His ass was smaller, his legs skinnier...really it was the ass bit that was upsetting, he’d filled those slacks out in ways he’d over heard many women saying they never could, and he was quite certain they weren’t talking about his cock. Waving a hand, “Besides, the man’s no doubt ruddy tired, and in no way prepared to deal with being fawned over by his English Mail Order Valid Boyfriend. Or whatever it is I am.” Scoffing, “‘Boyfriend’, who the hell came up with that term, they should be shot.”

 

“Whoever did is dead already, Eugene,” Irene shook her head, and turned to rummage about his personal effects like an indigent in the dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. 

 

“Fine! Dig them up, piss on them, cut them into bits, put them into a blender, mix them into C4, and blow up the nearest building filled with fuckwits! On principle!” Wheeling up behind Irene, Eugene snagged some of whatever garments of his she was treating so haphazardly in her search for a mythical outfit that neither mattered, nor if found, he intended on wearing. Wrist caught, Eugene tugged firmly, making her face him, “I think I can manage, darling, honestly, I’m a big boy and have been dressing myself since I was five, and by seven, capable of selecting appropriate attire for various occasions. My parents actually hired a style tutor along with my maths one, so that Mother need not be distracted by choosing what her designer progeny would wear to be paraded about, seen, not heard.” Chin jerking towards their shared armoire, “Go with the auburgene knee-length if you simply must fry his brain with your beauty. And the white sapphire necklace, _no_ stockings unless you fancy wearing them when one of us loses any sense of propriety and decorum to seek under that short hem.”

 

Irene grumbled nonsense, the faded silver silk slip she wore showing off a bit of pantyline, “I don’t see why you’re not dressing up, Eugene, if I am.”

 

Settling back to watch her for a few moments, taking in the familiar movements, her form, the intimacy and freedom of it, chin resting in his palm, elbow on armrest, “Because unlike your beautiful being that can wear both denim with an cotton tee, or something fit for a formal ball at Buckingham Palace - as well as everything possible between those two extremes - I do not transform so well. Mostly I’m a casual toff in slacks, Oxford and if feeling fancy, a waistcoat, or a suit. And I like it that way. Means I don’t have to keep up with fashion, I can be a grouchy, dated Englishman and nobody can tell, because I just look English.” Amending, “English gentry, technically. If I check my work hours logged, I’d bet I even work gentry type hours. Very traditional, very boring, and absolutely classic while above reproach. Reeks of old money, not that you Yanks can tell the difference between any of the above, which is fine, it means I can be especially lazy and still be impeccable.”

 

A blonde brow arched high on her forehead as she tucked the dress he’d suggested over her forearm, each hand holding a bundle, one black, one white, which were clearly her stockings, “If that’s your excuse, you need to try harder. Which?”

 

“Black,” drawing his index finger over the bone of his jaw on the way to pointing to the small bundle. “Use the thigh garters, not the belt, darling, otherwise it’s just another batch of trouble when trying to get you free of your knickers. While I’m obviously myself enough to manage that still, Vincent’s just crashed a big metal phallus into a hole in the ground with a net, and then no doubt spent time trapped in mandatory elbow rubbing. If the man can unbutton his own shirt without help by the time Lamar drops him off, then I’ll let you stuff me into a monkey suit for dinner at that French place you wanted to go to.”

 

When she sat on the royal blue velvet covered foot bench at the foot of the bed, Eugene was already rolling her stockings down into tight scrunches so he could take the liberty of putting them on her in a long slide. Much better than her usual scrunch this way, tug up, tug that way, straighten and smooth a wrinkle here or there, until rolling onto her back with one leg high up in the air method she generally was forced to resort to. Not that the last portion wasn’t a captivating view, but Vincent would be home in less than an hour, and Irene wouldn’t be willing to risk being found _in flagrante_. Neither would Eugene, actually. Sheer material unwound, slithering up and over Irene’s foot, ankle, calf, and all the way up to mid thigh under his hands, and he knew she would easily steal the breath of any poor sot who saw her, more so than usual. It was something for Irene to share with Vincent with his heroic return, having achieved the impossible, and well deserving of a hero’s welcome home. As such, Eugene’s third wheel, drab presence, was best done without as much as possible tonight, his staid and traditional mallard duck colouring would only detract from Irene’s bird of paradise. 

 

Stockings and garters fixed, Irene shimmied and wriggled, seated, into her dress, twisting to the side so he could zip her up, “No deal, you put on a suit, or I’ll wrestle you and put it on you myself, Eugene Morrow.” Standing up so she could go touch up her makeup, Irene leaned in close enough to kiss him, “Small words, use small words when you tell him, since he’ll be so tired. And if you look too rumpled, he’ll think you’re upset, get a move on, hot-stuff.”

 

It was his turn to mutter under his breath. Twelve months and the blasted woman may as well have domesticated him. _Had_ domesticated him, actually. 

 

Feeling the weight of her eyes on him at the door, waiting for him to actually make some motion towards the armoire, he puckered his lips, sarcastically calling, “Look, I’m do-ing it, alright? Who’s a good boy, Eugene? Oo-that’s me! Do as I’m told, that’s right, yes Mistress, shall I don the charcoal or the grey? Oh-oh, or maybe my birthday suit, I vote for that one, so effortless, got it from my parents, most expensive thing they ever gave me, would be appropriate, wouldn’t it?”

 

Laughter from the vanity around the corner, “It’s quite nice, but a bit much. You can show off later, Eugene. The slim waisted charcoal, not that frumpy baggy one that makes you look like a P.I. out of a checkout line noire.”

 

Didn’t take long, it was all easy after so many days, so many years, hauling and hoisting himself, or having to pull a leg up or carefully set it down. About to snag one of the too many white shirts, Irene’s hand darted above his, choosing instead a robins egg blue. Fine, there went his usual waistcoat to go under the jacket, not like he was aiming for formal dinnerware, he could afford to look like one of those fashion models wearing some designer trying to update ‘classic’ with a few splashes of mismatched colours and too tightly lined suits... Then again, the suit Irene had asked him to wear was one of those suits, so perhaps suffering a formal shirt in a shade of bad taste was called for. Anyway, it was them who would have to look at him, not himself, let it be their headache. Maybe he could get sauce from the rack of lamb Irene had prepared onto the shirt, ruining it? Oh, or lots of grease into the suit jacket. Nice thoughts, those. 

 

Hands in his lap, Eugene sighed, letting Irene roll him down the ramp, mostly because she liked to rest her weight deeply on the handles, so she was hunched and low over him, more than aware - or he was Queen Elizabeth I - that the move would always leave him surrounded and hyperaware of her. Closer still, lips near his ear, “You’re nervous, aren’t you? I’m excited.” Bright laugh beside him, tucking in so their cheeks pressed, “And nervous. Mostly excited. Jerome’s almost home!” 

 

Lids scrunching closed at the thought, while swamped like that, Eugene shuddered, hands clutching at armrests. Was he nervous? Why bother. He was simply Eugene to Vincent, he was on the other swing of the pendulum at the moment, quite certain that Irene had read Vincent wrong, when sometimes, Eugene was tipping into almost certain she had read him correctly. Disbelief was easier, it couldn’t lead to disappointment and dashed hopes that were nonsense anyways. Why couldn’t Irene and he have simply remained friends, close, allowing him to love her, but not having to risk being loved in return... It was addictive, heady, and he wished too often that the impossible was possible, that Vincent would be content with them both, that he himself could be content, that Irene could be... Fucking hell, he hated how he vacillated on it.

 

About to answer her, come up with a pithy retort, the downstairs back door opened and closed, and Eugene felt Irene give his wheelchair a firm push in the door’s direction. And she had also let go of the handles, not holding him back, not guiding, not that it was more than a few feet, and Eugene quickly corrected the roll, a sharp, practiced stop. Looking over his shoulder, checking, and Irene was there, hands clasped together, low on her waist, the picture of serenity. She was the one who was supposed to speak first, she was the one who was supposed to greet Vincent, welcome him home... 

 

“Eugene?” thud of leather valise dropped on floor, Vincent was there, arms coming out, body coming down, embracing him. “You’re alright,” words tucked and muffled into his shoulder, and Eugene wrapped his arms around the other man, helpless to resist. “You’re here, you’re really here, thought you said you were gonna travel, wasn’t sure you’d be back, wasn’t sure...man, it’s -” letting go, and Eugene saw almost, but not quite, his own eye-colour in Vincent’s face, the damned contacts covering the deep brown, and Eugene swallowed thickly, but Vincent was beaming, his hands running with a boldness that wasn’t customary. “It’s good to see you, Eugene, you were right, I was trapped in a tin can, and it was awful, nobody’s got a sense of humour, chain smoking’s frowned on, and definitely not a single bottle of decent red wine to be had, there wasn’t even any hard stuff. You’d have been in hell, Eugene. Hated, it, oh yeah, hated it,” smiling, a suspicious wateriness to the expression when the (in)Valid held his head between both hands, studying him, the contact covered eyes skipping all over Eugene’s face. “You look good, Eugene, like you’ve even been out in the sun maybe, well I’ll be, miracles do happen, you got your happy ass outside when the sun was out long enough to get some colour back in that face of yours.”

 

Had Irene asked if he was nervous? He was dying. No words came, just a few increasingly tight swallows, and itching in his eyes. Nose too. Never suffered from allergies before, it wasn’t in his gene profile, or at least it wasn’t supposed to be. Swallowing again, hoping something suitably sarcastic would come out, “Welcome home, Vincent, missed you, love you.” Pausing, realizing what he’d said, the utterly useless, simplistic script Irene had suggested, and - “Blast, that - drink, I need a drink. Need a drink, alcohol, Irene - ”

 

Glass deposited in his cupholder, Irene was there, beside him, at his shoulder, pouring, “That wasn’t so hard, just like rippin’ off a band-aid.” Irene watched as Eugene plucked his glass up and chugged, “I was getting worried he’d actually manage one of his long winded declarations since he’s had so long to work on it. But nope, short, sweet, to the point. It’ll do, but if he wakes me up with prose again, he’s your problem, because I’ll find a sock to shove in that mouth of his. After I’ve had some coffee, _then_ I can handle all that gum flapping, before? I won’t be held accountable for what actions I take.” 

 

Gasping, Eugene shoved the glass in the air, demanding Irene pour and fill him to the brim, “Oh good god, somebody say something else to break this tension before I do something humiliating and have the vapors like Aunt Lucille.”

 

“Jerome? I think that means you’re supposed to do something other than stare, since I’m already running interference, and I think if Eugene manages to down this bottle as fast as I think he’s trying to, then he’ll be able to claim he’s drunk and doesn’t know what he said using the defense of plausible deniability,” Irene snorted. Then swayed low towards Vincent, kissing his cheek, “I’m glad you’re home, too, Jerome.”

 

“Yeah-yeah,” slowly shifting to sit on the floor, Vincent dazedly glanced from one to the other, still smiling, but also lost, or perhaps - like Eugene - about ready to display the lesser known cousin of ‘fight or flight’ - flight or flight instincts. “It’s good to be home. It’s good, real good, you two are the only real reason to come back to this place, you know? Most everybody else sucks,” legs crossing at ankles, knees rising up, Vincent looped arms around the spread knees, one hand latching to the opposite wrist, half-rocking himself in place. “A few ain’t so bad, I suppose, but -” stopping, blinking, focusing on Eugene, and it was like a sucker punch, Eugene didn’t know what to call the expression, “wait, what kinda love? Not just your usual over-the-top flirt endearment, or friend, or family, or -”

 

Eugene winced, “I didn’t prep for the multiple choice test, does this question have an option at the bottom that says ‘all the above’ including that other kind of -” hand wave-rolling, “you know, feelings that you hadn’t gotten to assigning yet?” Brow furrowing, “And if I may, how the _hell_ did you manage surrounded by Gattaca goons for a year, in a tin can, while going full, one hundred percent goofball Vincent?” Pointing behind the other man, “Or did you drop Jerome as soon as that door opened? Honestly, right now, I’m not sure which you you are, and that’s fine, quite alright, but taking me a bit off guard, and now I’m worrying about some g-men descending upon our happy reunion, because life has been too pleasant lately, something’s obligated to interrupt and cock it up.” Turning in his chair, Eugene reached out, snagging the bottle of vodka from Irene, her resistance probably just for show when trying to keep it from pulling free of her grasp, “I need this bottle, dearest, I haven’t had a real drop to drink since dinner last night, and you may have me almost so domesticated I may as well be neutered, but goddammit, I think I’m bloody well having anxiety, and I need this bottle. Much simpler to pour for myself anyway, not like I’m going to drop the blasted thing, that’s alcohol abuse, and as we all know well, Eugene Morrow is a drunk, not an alcoholic, so no alcohol abuse here to be seen at all.”

 

Vincent threw his head back, the loud, unfettered laughter bubbling up spilling free without a care from the wide open mouth. Irene’s hand came out to clutch and cling at Eugene’s shoulder, and he felt her sway, just as he had, the sound of their much awaited astronaut, full of wild mirth, shooting through them. This was like Irene’s so often was at the farm, full of life, light...so powerful, that it almost blotted out the blight Eugene had lived with for so long he couldn’t remember when it had found a place in his life. Maybe it had always been there, waiting, and struck when he was weak, but for the moment, it was gone, chased off by Vincent’s laugh, by the fact that the fool had finally returned to _Terra_ , safe, sound, too many other things adding up and Eugene felt light himself briefly. 

 

Fingers mussed Eugene’s hair, Irene raking them through the locks he had forgotten to pomade earlier, “That’s one of your worst attempts at deflection yet, Eugene.” Irene held her other hand out to Vincent, “The way I hear tell, Jerome, there’s a kitchen in this condo, and right beside it, there’s rumours of a table - _with chairs_ to sit in, so we can eat the way they do in the houses up on the big hills.”

 

Eugene drank through dinner, didn’t taste food or alcohol, trying to figure out what was going on. It should be obvious, but it eluded him. So he clung to the surety that yes, after the meal, Vincent and Irene would retire upstairs, which was what Eugene wanted for them, for both of them, for their sakes, but also because he didn’t know what he was supposed to do if something else happened. Not that he knew what else could happen, didn’t even entertain the thought, the idea, because in the years since Vincent had entered his life, Eugene hadn’t allowed himself to think too much about any of it. It wasn’t possible, even before Irene. Maybe early on, when Eugene thought his burgeoning feelings for Vincent could be summed up and dealt with like a bit of lust, or something - then he’d thought about it. Only a little though. And now he didn’t think on it at all, it was too much, some games of pretend weren’t anything but torture, no matter what Irene assured him of. 

 

So when the meal was done, when Irene was leaning in to kiss him goodnight before heading up the stairs, her hips swaying in that unconscious way they did, Eugene began to bid Vincent good evening as he turned his wheelchair towards the ramp leading to the room he’d spent the last year sharing with Irene. 

 

“Here, lemme give you a hand,” Vincent interrupted, the way the wheelchair rolled altering under his friend’s direction, the rhythm of it different somehow than Irene’s. “Whole bottle downed over dinner’s fast even for what I’ve seen you do.”

 

“I’m not drunk,” Eugene asserted, and when Vincent didn’t even grunt, he repeated, “I’m _not_.”

 

“‘Course not, you get all yellow and grey when you’re drunk enough to be sick,” agreeing. “You’re just a little pale, so just mostly drunk.” Up the ramp, into the room, “C’mon, it’s been a year, don’t gimme too hard a time, ‘kay?” Eugene sighed, acquiescing, as Vincent glanced around the changed bedroom, “Looks a lot nicer than it did. Less...sterile.”

 

“Irene insisted,” Eugene watched as Vincent went through the motions of taking off his shoes, his socks, while Eugene tugged at his shirt buttons. “Bed was too small, linens too scratchy, not enough pillows, it’s how women are, you know. It starts off with an extra pillow, and ends up with a whole batch of new furniture, colour schemes...I’m lucky she hasn’t pulled out the paint swatches, I suppose...”

 

Vincent’s arms came around him, looping familiarly under his arms, around his chest, lifting up with most of the ease Eugene remembered. Wrapping his own arms around the other man, lending a bit of stability and aid he could, considering, he felt the shakiness of worn out muscles, overtaxed and tired from the day’s rigors and excitements. “Ain’t there a sayin’ - happy wife, happy life?”

 

“She’s not my wife,” Eugene snorted as he pulled himself to sit up on the bed, tugging at shirt and coat now that he was free of his chair to do so, and with the buttons undone making it possible. “But I know the saying. Like I said earlier, the woman’s practically civilized me, it’s dreadful. If I had a real job or something, I’d be _respectable_ at this point.”

 

“Aw, Eugene, I don’t think there’s anything that could manage that,” laughter in the words, taking the discarded shirt and coat, and draping it elsewhere, somewhere out of the way. “Almost respectable, maybe, but actually? Nah, quit worryin’.” Turning to face him, watching as he worked himself under covers, because Eugene wasn’t going to take his trousers off in front of Vincent without a decent reason to, the other man tugged a hand through hair, messing it up, making it even spikier, “Umn, I’m just real glad you two had each other. I hated thinking about you alone in this big ol’ place.” Hand going to rub over sternum, absent-minded, gaze distant, “It hurt whenever I thought about it. Hurt a lot, actually. I mean, I know you said you’d go traveling, seeing the world, but sometimes I- heh, umn, it’s stupid, I know, but I’d get scared.” Eyes re-focusing, “I remember what you said,” voice dropping lower, leaning forward, “that you’d never been more sober in your life when you walked in front of that car. That you grabbed my shirt and told me that if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Whenever I’d think of that, I’d get scared, and too far away to even call and check, let alone help.”

 

Looking away, pained, “Yes, it’s good Irene was here, I wasn’t alone, her friendship is...wonderful.”

 

The bed dipped, Vincent making himself comfortable for the moment, “Yeah. So...you two -”

 

“I’d never interfere, it was comforting, a good, solid thing, I love her, but I always knew it would be short-term,” Eugene interrupted. “I’m content so long as you both are happy.”

 

“Ohkay not what I was gonna say, actually,” head tilting, confused. “I was gonna say you two being an item’s nice. That whatever you two wanted was alright by me. I mean, maybe it’s a little weird to some folks, but they’re not here, and who cares about them anyway? Whatever works, and makes people happy, that’s what’s important, right? So whatever you two are up for, I’m game.” Stretching a little bit, standing up, “But right now, I’m pretty beat, and Irene asked to talked to me, so I’m gonna head on up.”

 

Oh. 

 

Eugene was flabbergasted, flinched when he felt Vincent’s hand cupping his cheek briefly, before the touch slipped away, and then he was alone in bed. Alone in a bed that smelled of Irene, smelled of himself, of them. A bed that, in spite of Vincent’s words, wouldn’t be one shared for much longer. There’d be some initial attempts, some back and forth, but when the relationship with Vincent was more solid, Irene wouldn’t need him so much anymore. And Eugene would learn to take what vicarious pleasures he could in overhearing Vincent and Irene together upstairs probably. That was the only real outcome Eugene could see. He wanted Vincent in bed with him, wanted to feel those arms around him, wanted to know what those lips tasted like. Not just Irene. But that was the impossible. Vincent may have just offered to share Irene with him, to test things out a bit. 

 

Clenching his eyes closed, Eugene struggled free of trousers, yanking and tugging at them under the covers, throwing them in the vicinity of the hamper, then reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, to flick the switches that went to the lights overhead, as well. Good news though, he hadn’t traumatized Vincent with coming home to find out he was dead. It was too much to hope that Vincent had forgotten that drunken revelation, that even if remembered, it wasn’t important enough - that _Eugene_ wasn’t important enough - for it to be nightmare fuel. Of course if Irene - ha, _if_ , it would be _when_ not if, since it was something she still had nightmares about - told Vincent about how she’d found him in the incinerator, waiting to be burned up like discarded genetic material... God, what a mess, what a frightful, awful mess, what abysmal love interests Eugene had, what bad taste, to befriend and love a pair of individuals who actually _cared_ about him. What a bad idea that was. 

 

Curling towards Irene’s side of the bed, praying for sleep, having yanked the pillow that smelled the most of her presently to himself, Eugene waited in silence, beyond the alcohol fueled rushing of blood in his skull. 

 

It was just when sleep may have been about to claim him, that Eugene felt weight shifting the bed again, waking him up, “What - ?”

 

“Irene’s asleep,” Vincent’s voice was soft. “Upstairs, but she said I should come down here if I wanted to. If that’s alright with you.”

 

Awkwardly rolling over, reaching for the night lamp, “Giving up a bed with a beautiful woman in it? Are you daft?”

 

“We talked,” Vincent ignored his question. “And I thought ‘bout what you said at first. I-I was thinkin’ I imagined it. Made it up, made this up, tired and head all funny from a year of bad sleep, worse food, an unpleasant landing, y’know? Stress. Maybe cracking under pressure or somethin’ finally, making up what I wanted to hear. Even when you sorta clarified it.” Shyly, “Irene had to hit me on the head a few times.”

 

A bark of a laughter burst out, unintentional, “She’s rather good at that, isn’t she?”

 

“Real insistent,” agreeing, and Vincent’s hand came out, flicking the lowest level switch on the lamp, brushing by Eugene’s hand that had still hovered midway to turning the lamp on moments ago. Vincent’s glasses were on, his brown eyes finally in evidence, and Eugene felt their weight on him, different than before, “In space, I dreamed about you, as much, or more than, Irene. Before the mission, it was about space, or about you, sometimes both. I didn’t let myself think about it, way I saw it, I wasn’t your type, so I didn’t wanna make things weird and say anything. Besides, I’d have probably bumbled or something, when you look at me sometimes, it’s like I’ve suddenly got two left feet, and can’t do anything right. So why ruin the only friendship I had by saying anything? It’d be impossible for you to feel any other way, I thought. Was so certain.”

 

All the air was sucked out of the room suddenly. Irene had been right. Either that, or Eugene was so drunk he was hallucinating, or this was one of those rare, but extremely disturbing drunken dreams that became nightmares when he woke up and found the contents of the dream were nothing more than figments of an intoxicated, disturbed mind. 

 

Croaking, denying, afraid that he had been wrong, because he wanted and he was scared, “You don’t know the meaning of impossible, you chase impossible down, prove it’s possible for you, no matter the odds. Impossible doesn’t exist for you.”

 

“Bullshit,” snorting, shaking his head, staunch. “Gattaca? Possible. Titan? Possible. Evading being outted? Possible. _But only with help,_ Eugene. With your help, with Lamar’s, with Irene’s, fuck, even with _Anton’s_ covering for me near the end. And I wasn’t gonna throw myself at another dream, one that was actually impossible, one that chasing could risk one of the only things I’d ever had in life that were good, even when they were hard. I know the meanin’ of impossible, so I didn’t say anything for fear of failing what I couldn’t succeed at, not when failure would cost so high.” Vincent shifted on the side of the bed, still mostly clothed, only his shoes and coat had been removed from the suit he’d worn - probably all day. “I told you about Irene and her offering to let me sequence her, giving me a hair that I purposefully dropped, and I told you about when I gave her the same option, she let it go, too. Those were just single hairs. You sent me to space with a whole lock, with hundreds of hairs, hundreds of chances to let the wind steal it from my fingers and accept you as is, not caring about genetics at all. It wasn’t like samples, rented out, or ones you stocked up to cover a friend’s ass. When I opened that fold up, that was the first time I thought...maybe it wasn’t impossible. Maybe you felt the same, at least a little, but then there was also Irene, but hey, she’s a lot more open and understanding than just about anybody when it’s important... So, maybe something could be figured out, worked out...maybe.” Swallowing, “Eugene, I dreamed of maybes, I dreamed of little stuff, and that’s all that kept me sane up there in that tinca, where I could only be Jerome, no hint of anything else. No safe place, no real friends, just someone else I’ve become.” 

 

“You are Jerome now, mostly,” Eugene replied. “Except when you’re Vincent. You make a better Jerome than I ever could, but you make Jerome a better person, better man, than anybody else could, and that’s because you injected him with lots of Vincent. You made him yourself, not just made yourself into him. You could’ve eased up on yourself up there, nobody would have known, they only would see Jerome, at first, maybe because all they saw was what they expected, but soon it would be because you were there, and that’s Jerome. There was no need to torment yourself over being perfect.”

 

“Heh, yeah, well, it is what it is,” shrugging, staring at his hands, exhaustion painting every line, every inch of him. How was he still functioning? He’d been falling down when got home, had been unfocused most of dinner, and god only knows what he and Irene had done. The man should be catatonic, not sitting there, making sense. “You were still there for me, Eugene, especially in the quiet, lonely moments, when I’d be scared, or unable to sleep. The worst nights, I’d pull out the recording of your heart beating, and that’d help. I think right now I’m okay explaining, or hope I’m doing okay, because I’m too tired to have two left feet, too tired to stutter, too tired to be worried much. But I know that after I sleep, I’m gonna remember what Irene said, and string it all together with things you said, mix it all up with nightmares in space, and I’ll wake up an-and it won’t be good, Eugene. No heartbeat recording could clear that up.”

 

“Clear what up? You were making sense up until -”

 

“In the fucking _incinerator_ , Eugene,” the words bitten off, angry and exhausted. “Giving me everything, leaving me everything, and then _disposing of yourself_? Like-like...like _that_? I’m afraid to go to sleep, I’m afraid to go to sleep and then wake up, ‘cuz I dunno how I could even ward that off. How I could make it better, how I could believe that this is real, even after checking to see you’re actually here and not a bit of ash that would get vacuumed up by the suction every twenty-four hours. To know that you were always there for me, but find out that I was never there for you? That I could never be there for you? Or somethin’? Holy fuck, Eugene, do you know - “ Hunching over, head in both hands, choking, “I never thought you needed somethin’ I wasn’t giving, or that I couldn’t give, couldn’t share. Or-or that you’d think livin’ was such shit, that it was best to check out. How do I risk sleepin’ knowin’ what I know now, an-and I don’t care if it’s sounds stupid, but how can I believe when I wake up, knowin’ that stuff, that this is real? That you’re safe? That you’re whole? Yeah?”

 

Sitting up, Eugene didn’t know what to make of this. This wasn’t Irene’s nightmares. Hers were concrete, they had images, they had deeds, to go with them. And she’d had almost immediate reassurance, contact, to ease the memory, and a year of more reassurance, of waking each morning holding him or being held by him, proving his survival again and again. Vincent had a year of solitude and loneliness, of hiding everything, and no comfort, to mix with nightmare, knowledge, daydreams good and bad, atop a mass of exhaustion. A joke about offing himself wouldn’t go over real well right now, Eugene surmised.

 

Hazarding, “This’ why Irene sent you downstairs, I suppose.” Reaching out, cautiously, touching Vincent wasn’t something Eugene did, no matter how often he’d wanted to, and grasped his wrist, squeezing. “See? Solid, flesh, blood.” Pulling the hand closer, resting it on his chest, holding it there, covering it with his, “Heart of an ox, could run through a wall, if I could still run, just like German said, the tactless ass, crippled doesn’t mean deaf, dammit.”

 

“No,” shaking his head, but the hand pressed more firmly, fingers spreading, lids behind wireframes closing, “she sent me down here ‘cuz she wanted to make sure we didn’t mess stuff up and try and act like idiots about our feelings. Or somethin’ like that. I-I didn’t tell’er about being scared.”

 

“Oh.” Well...well _damn_. Probably a good thing though, otherwise her own nightmares may ramp up, because if Vincent was scared, then things had really gone tits up, hadn’t they?

 

Vincent rubbed fingers under his glasses, his other hand remaining in place, feeling the beating of Eugene’s heart, “I’m really tired, Eugene, and I don’t wanna come off as pushy or somethin’, but ca-can I sleep down here with you tonight, maybe?” Voice cracking, “Please?”

 

“Bloody hell,” sighing. “Don’t be daft, of course you can. Even if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t put you out when you’re in this bad a spot, I’m an unabashed asshole, not a cruel bastard, not my style and too much work anyway.” Scooting to the side, making room, “Though, you get one warning, I’m not wearing anything under here, and I’m too tipsy still to bother caring about trying to find my sleep pants, so don’t get huffy about it...not that I see why you would if you want me, but some people are weird about those things. I’m not one of them, you wear whatever you like to bed, and it’s all the same to me.”

 

Distracting himself by plumping pillows, scooting himself around somewhat, Eugene gave Vincent whatever privacy or whatnot that he needed. Not that the other man had ever been shy as far as Eugene had ever noted - was perfectly comfortable parading around the condo in naught but a short robe for hours at a time. Alright, granted, it was to facilitate the process of scraping off excess (in)Valid cells that would easily shed, and donning the various accoutrements that were specially designed to carry and shed Eugene’s Valid DNA upon command, but... Really, no, even when wandering around in board shorts, Hawaiian shirts over shirtsleeves, Vincent hadn’t been the shy type. Even when he was on the scrawny side, Vincent hadn’t had any reason to be ashamed of his body, not from what Eugene had seen. Not beyond the difference in height, the myopia, and alright, the helix bit, but those were specific to the role for the most part... 

 

Almost immediately the bed was filled, the light clicked off with a flail of hand and there was the clatter of glasses set on the nightstand smacking against the base of the lamp. “Not how I remember it, you wore pj’s to bed,” countering with a yawn. “Green and black checkered flannel when it’s cold, blue satiny stuff when it’s warmer, with white trim on the seams. Long sleeve undershirt, almost always, sorta not-white, beige or somethin’. But buttons undone, like the guy version of a girl showin’ off a big bunch of cleavage, ‘bout as distractin’, too. Never bother with the matchin’ pj tops, found’um in a trunk, tossed my old stuff in there too. Got multiples of each, always the same.” Christ that made him sound boring, and as though Vincent could read his mind, “Was comfortin’.”

 

“If you say so,” sighing, letting it go. “These days, boxers, or a pair of your old joggers, perhaps nothing, but honestly, the pyjamas and shirts were for your benefit if you simply must know. I didn’t want to show off my spindly legs, or shock my flatmate, I guess, seemed a tad rude to do so,” wondering what was to happen next as he rolled his upper body to the side, facing Vincent who was on his side as well, watching him in the darkness, the only light coming from the thin but long window in the bedroom.   
“Bein’ rude’s part of your charm,” murmuring, shifting and squirming to get more comfortable, and, after a brief hesitation, the weight of an arm slid over Eugene’s side, over the covers. “I worry if you’re too polite, means you’re fakin’ something. If you’re nice, that’s one thing, if you’re being completely proper, an’ it’s not to a stranger...”

 

“I’m usually rude to them too, you know,” settling in, debating tugging Vincent closer, or moving closer himself, Irene and he already had a system, but men, in Eugene’s experience, often were somewhat...tetchy. Though that may have been the kinds of men he’d been with. Social class and appearances and power displays. “I quite enjoy being rude, it’s freeing, and the wheelchair gives me a lovely free pass, what are they going to do? Hit the cripple in the wheelchair who can’t defend himself, he can only use nasty words? It’s just not done.”

 

“Yeah, whatever, they forget you got hands an’ upper body strength or somethin’?” Vincent interrupted before Eugene could formulate a reply to the question, “I didn’t dream about the talkin’, but this’s almost ‘xactly what I’d dream ‘bout, Eugene. ‘Cept we’d be closer, I guess...always woke up squeezin’ the pillow, rubbin’ my face in it, thinkin’ for a few seconds it was you, and disappointed when it was just a shitty pillow, not you. Didn’t think ‘bout your voice though, or I woulda gone crazy, nobody sounds like you. Sound like home.”

 

Well that solved things after a fashion. Eugene wormed one arm under the pillows, lifting up Vincent’s portion as well as his own with the motion, the other arm, under the blankets, wrapping around the other man, and tugged him in close. He played pillow almost as frequently as he was the one being pillowed, because Irene kept a deathgrip on him all night long, no matter which one of them was sleeping on their back. Spooning was more rare however, and right now that didn’t seem viable anyway. 

 

Finding a suitable place to tuck his face, so that Vincent’s temple rested on his cheek and chin, “Shall I tell you a bedtime story, or perhaps sing you a lullaby? Not that I think I can manage much of either right now, I’m a bit done in myself...but if it’ll put you to sleep...”

 

Vincent’s arm wrapped tighter, squeezing him in, just not like one of Irene’s deathgrips, “Just tell me I’m home, or somethin’, an’ that-that this is alright with you.”

 

He could do one better than that. All it took was a tilt of chin and twist of neck, to find Vincent’s full lips and cover them with his own. It wasn’t a very long or thorough kiss, but it was certainly not chase, and it definitely wasn’t the kind given to anyone not a lover. Attempting the Irene recommended and approved small word script that he’d somehow still managed to muck up earlier, with a bit of tweaking to make it his own, “Welcome home, Vincent, I missed you, and I regret to inform you that I love you, do hope it’s not too much bother, because you know how I like being inconvenient, giving you a hard time, it’s always the high point of my day.”.

 

That gained a contented sigh, instead of the expected laugh and ‘yeah, yeah.’


End file.
